Mustafa Hamu entertained us royally. Or perhaps everything put in front of me just seemed fit for a king after such a long time in captivity. Once more I ate three times the usual amount. My friends didn’t hold back either. We apologized, saying we had to replenish our stores. And in truth we were emaciated. “Dig in, girls!” his wife encouraged.
The couple put us up in a guest room where, by the looks of things, a number of visitors of our sort had taken shelter in the past, people whom Mustafa Hamu had helped escape. I was sure the man earned a huge amount of money for his services. And yet I can’t regard his work as anything but honorable. Without a professional helper like him we’d never have been able to get away from the “Islamic State.”
We showered and tried to get some sleep. But none of us could manage a wink. We were far too excited, for that night we would be heading further toward our homeland. Mustafa Hamu was going to take us to Derik on the Iraqi border.
“But we don’t have any passports,” I pointed out.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “The PKK, which controls the border on our side, and the Peshmerga on the Iraqi side have come to an agreement to let through Yazidi returnees even without passports.” The PKK was the name for the guerrilla arm of the Kurdistan Workers’ Party, and they were the Turkish brothers of the Iraqi Peshmerga.
“How will they know we’re Yazidis?” I asked, in all naïveté.
“You can be sure they’ll recognize you,” Mustafa Hamu said. He didn’t explain any further what exactly he meant by that. But for the first time it dawned on me that everyone in this region knew how ISIS treated Yazidi girls, and what the men had done to us. I went bright red with shame, but in the same moment was angry that I felt this way. I mean, I hadn’t done anything wrong. But would our families see it that way too?
Quite late that night Mustafa Hamu knocked at the door and informed us that it was time to leave. I couldn’t fathom why we had to cross the border at night, when everything had supposedly been arranged. Perhaps the “agreement” he’d spoken about only worked with a few of Mustafa Hamu’s personal acquaintances, who got paid.
We drove in his car for about half an hour before reaching the Euphrates. The bridge, which in peacetime led across the wide river, was blocked on the Syrian side. So we went further upstream to a slightly narrower point in the river, where a man in a small motorboat was waiting in the darkness. He must have been an acquaintance of Mustafa Hamu, for they greeted each other with a handshake. The man motioned to all six of us to get into the boat. Mustafa Hamu made no move to come with us.
“Are we crossing the river illegally?” I asked him.
“No, it’s all been arranged,” he asserted.
“What do we do when we get to the other side?”
“People are expecting you.”
“Who?”
Mustafa Hamu shrouded himself in silence. Quite clearly he wanted to keep us in suspense. This vague announcement made us rather fidgety. Who would be welcoming us on the Iraqi side? Impatiently we got into the boat and the man started the motor.
Mustafa Hamu watched as we crossed the dark river. And I saw him wave goodbye to us from the bank. “Best of luck!” he called out. “I’ll wait here until I’m certain that you’ve made it to the other side.”
We sailed across the broad expanse of water, accompanied by the rattling of the motor and its stench of diesel. An odd feeling of euphoria came over me at the thought of putting a foot in my homeland again. As we got closer to the other side I could make out a small group of people waiting for our arrival. My heart began thumping wildly. I felt for Evin’s hand, which was just as cold as mine.
Somebody stretched out a hand, helping us out of the rickety boat and onto dry land. “Farida,” said a familiar voice. And yet to begin with I didn’t know who it was addressing me. “Farida, is that you, my child?” he asked uncertainly. Then I recognized Uncle Adil, my father’s elder brother. Although it was dark I could see that he’d lost a lot of weight and his face had become much more wrinkled than I remembered. I flew into his arms.
“Uncle Adil, Uncle Adil!” I cried, bursting into tears.
My uncle wept too. “Thank the Lord that you’re alive, child,” he said. “We all thought you were dead.”
He held me very tight and stroked my head tenderly. “You’re alive, you’re alive,” he mumbled again and again. “Nothing else matters. Now everything’s going to be all right again, Farida.”
But I barely heard what he was saying. I couldn’t stop crying.
{ Nine }
No Home, Not Anywhere
All the girls were greeted by their relatives. Waiting for Evin were her brother Fansar and cousin Hamid, who’d come in the same taxi as my uncle. In the general excitement we barely had time to say a proper goodbye to the other girls. “Thanks, Farida,” young Besma said to me before we went our separate ways.
I gave her a conspiratorial nod. I knew that she wasn’t referring to my part in helping her escape or the compresses, but to the episode with the scissors. “Never forget how strong you are, my little friend,” I said, kissing her on the forehead.
Then I joined my uncle, and Evin, who was living in the same camp as me, and the others in the taxi for the journey home. But we didn’t go back to Kocho; our home there didn’t exist anymore. Uncle Adil informed me that I’d be staying with him and Auntie Hadia. They lived in a container in a refugee camp near the Kurdish city of Dohuk. Our village, which was around 170 kilometers southwest, was still occupied by the “Islamic State,” he said. When I heard all of this I was gripped by worry. “What about my parents?” I finally summoned the courage to ask.
“We don’t know for sure, Farida. Your mother and the little boys are probably still imprisoned. We suspect they’re in Tal Afar or Mosul.”
That was like a knife in my heart. My poor mother! Had she endured the same as me? Had she been sold as a slave too? I’d have been willing to offer myself immediately to the terrorists to take her place. For how could I enjoy my own freedom if she was still imprisoned?
“Don’t despair, Farida,” my uncle said, as if able to read my thoughts. “We’ll do all we can to liberate her from the clutches of ISIS.” He told me that now there were lots of men like Mustafa Hamu who had contacts in the Islamists’ dominion and were offering their services for money. Hiring assistance for an escape cost several thousand dollars. “But the Kurdish government is helping us to raise the money,” he said, trying to reassure me, referring to the government of the Kurdish autonomous region of Iraq.
“What about Dad? And Delan and Serhad?” I asked anxiously.
“Serhad’s in the camp with us.”
“Really?” That, at least, was good news. “And Dad and Delan?”
“We haven’t heard anything from them,” my uncle replied. “We don’t know if they survived or not.” He told me what I’d suspected and feared the whole time—that there had been mass shootings on the day when the Islamists attacked our village.
“But we don’t know if they’re among the victims,” he hurried to add. “I mean, your little brother made it.”
My euphoria vanished in a flash. On hearing this news, the relief at having succeeded in our escape gave way to a black mood. It was like making a mockery of my own rescue; without my family, my newfound freedom was all of a sudden pointless. Even before we reached the camp I understood that my old life was irrevocably over; it would never be the same as it once was. I couldn’t bear to think about what might have happened to my father and Delan, and I buried the thought.
We drove through the large gate at the bottom of the camp. Like the ISIS camp in Syria, it consisted of white living containers packed close together on a hillside, hundreds of them. Countless relatives and friends from Kocho were already waiting outside my uncle’s container to greet us, the returnees. My fat aunt Hadia, who wasn’t quite as fat as before, was there with her daughter, three-year-old Rosa. The little girl ran up to me and both of them gave
me a hug. “Where have you been, Farida?” Rosa asked. “Where are your parents and brothers?”
“I don’t know . . . I haven’t seen them in a long time,” I said, giving her a kiss.
“Are you going to stay with us now?”
“Yes, my sweet little girl. How I’ve missed you!”
“I’m so happy you’re back,” my aunt said. “The rest doesn’t matter.”
I looked at her, then lowered my gaze in shame. I knew, of course, what she was referring to, but I didn’t broach the subject. “Yes,” I just said. “I’m very happy too.”
“To begin with, we thought that everyone who’d stayed in the village was dead. But then Serhad arrived, and now you. I’m sure the rest will turn up. You should have fled with us back then.”
“They will hopefully all return if the Lord so wishes.”
Then I saw my sixteen-year-old brother. Serhad wouldn’t look me in the eye. He embraced me silently—and I knew that he’d suffered horrific experiences too. And in our culture, we avoid discussing matters which would cause pain to another.
“It’s good you’re alive, bro,” I said.
“It’s good you’re alive, sis,” he replied, using the same words. “I’m going to look after you from now on.”
I nodded. And I’ll look after you, I thought, but didn’t say it. I didn’t want to deprive my brother of any more of the small residue of pride we both had. We would desperately need each other’s support, but it wouldn’t be easy to look each other in the eye again. Deep down, I was itching to hear more about my father. But I was so frightened of what I might hear. When I looked in Serhad’s eyes, something seemed dead—and I couldn’t bring myself to pry.
I moved into the container that housed my uncle, aunt, their three small children, and Serhad. It consisted of a single room we lived in during the day, and where at night we slept wrapped in woolen blankets on foam mattresses. In the entrance area there was also a cooking facility with two hotplates, as well as a bathroom with a toilet and shower, which worked at least once a day.
Although our accommodation was cramped and simple, I really didn’t care. I was grateful to my aunt and uncle for taking me in and treating me and my brother like their own children. I made myself useful around the place whenever I could and helped my aunt clean the container. Or I’d lend a hand with the cooking. Our rations weren’t exactly abundant, but there was always enough of the staples such as rice. So we tried to be creative and vary how we used them. In the clay oven that had been built at the edge of the camp, the women from Kocho baked our typical bread, which cooks on the oven wall until it’s crispy. It smelled appetizing and tasted delicious when I ate it again for the first time; it was like a little piece of our lost home.
My aunt was very good to me. As I learned, she, Uncle Adil, and the children had only survived by a whisker. They’d stuck it out for days in the mountains without water or food until aerial bombing by the Americans created an escape corridor for them. “There were times I thought we’d all die of thirst in the mountains,” my aunt said.
“Did you see Nura up there at all?” It was a question that had been on my mind the whole time. After all, my cousin and her family had been among the first to leave Kocho for Sinjar. But I hadn’t seen her in the camp yet.
“Nura? No,” Auntie Hadia said. “But her family’s here in the camp, or at least some of them.”
“Really?” What did that mean?
“As far as I know, her mother and aunts are here.”
The following day I went looking for Nura’s family. I soon found her mother, who’d taken shelter with relatives. She was in a container where the elderly women of Kocho were sitting together, drinking tea. I recognized many of them, at least vaguely. When Nura’s mother realized who it was standing there she stared at me as if she’d seen a ghost. “Farida?” she said uncertainly. “Is it really you?”
“Of course it is!” I went over and gave her a kiss.
“My dear Farida,” she said, her eyes at once filling with tears. “Have you heard anything of Nura?”
“What?” Why should I have? “Isn’t she here?”
Nura’s mother told me that on the way to Sinjar their pickup had run into a checkpoint. “They shot all the men,” she said, “but the girls . . . all my daughters . . .” Her mother couldn’t say any more. She started to shake and had a crying fit.
“Those poor girls,” said one woman who’d put up her hair into a gray bun. She was wearing a white skirt, white blouse, and a headscarf of the same color. She looked straight through me, as if I weren’t there. “Our poor girls, defiled,” she lamented. “They’ll never be able to marry. No man will take them as their wife now. Their lives are ruined forever . . .”
I stormed out of the container like a scalded cat. Nura’s mother hurried after me. “Farida, wait!” she cried. “Have you heard anything about Nura? Or her sisters? Did you see her where you were?”
“No,” I shouted, dashing to Auntie Hadia’s container. My heart was pounding like mad and I could barely hold back the tears. I hid under my blanket, not wanting to see anyone. So that’s what they really thought of us.
I FELL SICK. After about a week in the camp I felt feeble and miserable, and got a high temperature. I slept during the day, drawing the curtains inside the container and pulling the blanket over my head to allow me some peace from the world. With her rash comments it felt as if the old woman had severed the artery providing me with the will to live. Her savage judgment had broken my spirit, something that ISIS with all its cruelty hadn’t managed.
Why should I show my face outside in the camp if people were gossiping about me behind my back? What point was there in going on living? I was a nothing, a nobody, a stranded girl, burdening my relatives. I had no future. Perhaps it would have been better not to return to this world.
My aunt thought my illness was a result of acute exhaustion after all our exertions. She tried to cheer me up and she never said a bad word about me, at least not in my presence. But I fancied I knew what she secretly thought of me. And that’s why I felt so terrible.
My depression didn’t escape Evin. “Farida, what’s wrong?” she demanded to know after I’d avoided her for a few days. “What’s troubling you?”
“Nothing,” I pretended. “I’m just not feeling particularly well, that’s all.”
“Farida, you can’t go moping around the whole time,” my friend said. She told me that she too was smarting from the looks friends and relatives were giving her. It was inevitable that they were going to talk about us. Everyone in the camp knew what happened to abducted girls. “Listen, we didn’t fight all these battles with the jihadis only to allow ourselves to be browbeaten by our relatives,” Evin said. “We mustn’t stick our heads in the sand.”
“But we’ll never be able to start a family. No one will want to have us.”
“That’s what they say. But we’ve no idea what life has in store for us,” my friend corrected me.
The next time Evin visited me she came with someone I didn’t know. The woman she brought to the container was around fifty years old, short, plump, and brimming with energy. “Are you Farida?” she asked me in Kurdish. And before I could answer she pulled me to her chest. “I’m Afrah,” she said, “Afrah Ibrahim. I’m the camp’s social worker.”
I eyed her with suspicion. Afrah explained that she worked for a German organization called Wadi, which supported women and girls in Kurdistan. In the past she’d fought against genital mutilation. She was clearly a Muslim, but she didn’t wear any sort of veil, and tied up her medium-length, dark hair with a barrette. Afrah started to talk to Evin and me very openly about sexuality. She didn’t mince her words and acted as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “It’s essential that you get checked up by a doctor,” she said, “because your ‘owners’ may have infected you with a disease.” We looked at her in horror.
“Don’t worry,” Afrah reassured us. “Every disease can be treated a
nd cured. It’s just important to spot them early enough.” She also implied that the same was true of a potential pregnancy.
I told her that throughout my time in captivity I hadn’t had a regular period. “That’s due to the stress,” Afrah said. “I’m sure everything’s fine. But we ought to err on the side of caution. You owe it to your bodies to take good care of them.”
Evin and I soon realized that this woman was our ally. If the entire camp looked down on us, gossiping maliciously behind our backs about our supposed lost honor, then this woman understood us. She accompanied us to the doctor, listened to our concerns, and treated us as equals when offering advice. It felt marvelous finally to be able to discuss our problems with someone, without it constantly being hinted at that our lives were ruined.
“So long as my mother remains in captivity, you are my mother,” I told her.
“And you’re my daughter, Farida, my brave, spirited daughter.”
I told Afrah about the gossip doing the rounds in the camp. “Don’t listen to them,” she said. “If you give license to such thoughts it’s like giving those ISIS criminals permission to abuse you again.”
I didn’t know what she meant by that at first. But then I came to see how right she was: we mustn’t give our tormentors the power to continue to destroy our lives. In captivity we’d defied these criminals. But we had to resist them now as well. I understood that the fight was far from over. Every day we’d have to defend ourselves anew against this destructive force, which even from the past threatened to swallow us into a black hole.
Grasping this was a crucial step for me. No, I had refused to allow myself to be browbeaten in captivity. So I was not about to be browbeaten by other people who thought I’d lost my “honor.” “Don’t allow yourselves to believe it,” Afrah told us. “You haven’t lost your honor. On the contrary, you were brave and have every reason to go through life with your heads held high.”
My chest swelled with pride when she said things like that. Sometimes when I was strolling through the camp and heard people whispering, I would forget her words and feel utterly deflated. It was a constant battle. It is a constant battle. But I will win it, as I have all my battles up till now.
The Girl Who Escaped ISIS Page 19
