“It’s almost ready, comrade,” one of the men shouted up to the roof. The older woman, who was called Nesrin and who was the battery’s commander, lowered the binoculars and leaned out from under the tarp.
“I hope you don’t make it too salty this time, Rauf.”
It was a warm September day. You got to feeling there wasn’t even a war. But there was a war. It was smoke that reminded us of this, greasy black smoke rising up toward the sky. The city on the western side of the marsh was burning. The column of smoke could be seen from even fifteen kilometers away. Jarabulus was burning, but so were the villages around it. Islamic State was on the retreat. It wanted to leave nothing behind for the Kurds.
“Lunch is ready!” Rauf yelled and began beating the side of the cauldron with the spoon. Young, armed women came forward from the thicket, where three M-55 howitzers stood. They set their machine guns up against the side of the building and sat on the ground. The soldiers climbed down from the roof, too, leaving just one person up there, with the binoculars, to stand guard.
The two men ladled the soup into mess-tins, pressed them into the soldiers’ hands with a portion of bread for each of them, and then they, too, began to eat.
“You’re not hungry, comrade?” asked Nesrin.
She stopped above me. Her narrow face was grooved with wrinkles; her mouth was thin. Her thick black hair was graying vigorously. All this imparted a sternness to her lineaments, balanced only by her cheerily glistening brown eyes.
“I ate a whole lot in Kobani.”
“You could at least taste our concoction. True, Comrade Rauf is a far better marksman than a cook, but he does do it.”
She pressed her mess-tin in my hand, got more for herself, and sat down beside me. We began to eat.
“Isn’t it too salty?”
“No, it’s just right.”
“Hear that, Rauf?” asked Nesim, adding, with a laugh, “The Hungarian comrade likes your soup. On that note, so do I.”
“I try, comrade,” Rauf replied with satisfaction.
For a while we ate in silence.
“I’d like to photograph you, Nesim,” I said, when I finished the soup.
“Not a chance.”
“But in Qamishli they said …”
“My nose is too big in pictures.”
“I’ll photograph you in profile.”
“Why do you want to photograph an old woman? There are the nice young comrades here.”
“I like your face.”
“I’ve got a husband. Besides, you could be my son.”
She laughed.
“Don’t take me seriously, I’m just kidding with you. You can photograph me. As long as you promise that my nose won’t be big in the picture.”
“I promise.”
Sounds of static filtered out of the radio on the commander’s belt.
“Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatulla, brothers, whereabouts are you?” crackled a male voice.
Nesrin unsnapped the radio from her belt, put it on the ground in front of her, and turned up the volume.
“This is Daesh,” she said. “They’re so close that we pick up their radio transmissions.”
“Really?” I asked, but I didn’t get a reply, because the radio came again.
“Va alaikum salam, brother,” replied another male voice. “We’ll arrive in the village soon.”
“Are you nervous, Brother Abed?” the radio continued.
“The idiots’ transmission button got stuck,” said Nasrin.
Everyone turned toward the radio.
“Bismillah, I am really a bit nervous, Brother Islem,” a younger voice replied.
“I’m happy you give me direction.”
“I’m always happy to help younger brothers.”
“May Allah bless you for it. You are a true mujahid, whom everyone looks up to. Since when have you been in the caliphate?”
“Alhamdulillah, two years already. Though I’ve prayed for him to call me to him, until now Allah has kept me here. How long have you been with us, brother?”
“By the mercy of Allah, four months. I too would like to be a martyr, if Allah allows it.”
“Mashallah. How do you like life in the caliphate?”
“Amazing. Finally I can be among true brothers.”
“Where are you from?”
“Egypt.”
“Mashallah. Mother of the world. Say, have you found yourself a wife yet?”
“Unfortunately, not yet. The Muslims all have husbands already. True, I haven’t had time, either, to look around much.”
“You could marry a martyr’s widow.”
“Yes.”
“Or you could buy yourself a lovely young slave.”
“I don’t have that much money, brother.”
“Have you been with a woman at all yet?”
“No, brother, not yet. I’m nervous, too.”
“Oh, come now, don’t be nervous. Anyone is capable of sticking the stick into the ditch. And if you’re that afraid, there’s Viagra. You’ll see, the brothers will stuff your pockets full on your wedding.”
“Yes. Do you have a wife, brother?”
“Not yet. But soon. There’s no rush. I have two Yazidi slaves who amuse me.”
“They amuse you.”
“They do. For the prophet, peace and blessings upon him, said we can bed our servants as much as we so wish.”
I passed my eyes over the Kurdish women soldiers. Everyone’s face clouded over. Even Commander Nesrin’s eyes had stopped glistening. No one said a word.
“Mashallah. And are you not afraid that they will turn against you in your sleep?”
“Not I. I keep strict discipline among the slaves.”
“You never had any problem with them? I heard of a case in which they conspired at night and cut the mujahid’s throat.”
“Yes. At first I had three. One of them escaped, but we caught up with her at the city borders. Since then I’ve had just two.”
“Mashallah.”
“You know what I’m saying? If it also be Allah’s will, and we get back to Raqqa, I’ll sell you one of them. The younger one. She’s hardly a woman yet. With that you’ll win enough time so you can choose wisely among the Muslims.”
“You are really generous. May Allah bless you. But I can’t pay for it. I’m poor.”
“You’ll cover it in installments, from your pay. The last thing the caliphate will reduce is our pay, because we are the foundations of the caliphate.”
“Indeed, so we are. In the name of Allah.”
The radio suddenly reverted to static. Everyone at the garrison was silent. Nesrin stood, and called up to the roof.
“Is there any movement?”
“A Toyota is coming from the northeast,” came the reply.
“Are they within firing range?”
“No, comrade, but another five or ten minutes if they don’t stop.”
“Let me know right away when they’re within firing range.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The soldiers returned to the howitzers. Nesrin picked up the radio from the ground. The garrison was filled with its static. She walked back and forth with it until the signal returned.
“It is written that the unbelievers will attack the armies of Mehdi and the caliphate with full force, but that Allah will then blow upon them and they will collapse. So don’t worry. Trust in Allah.”
“Amin. And yet we’ve retreated quite a lot lately.”
“We’ll retreat, and we’ll advance again. No one thought we could take Mosul. We did so without firing a shot. We have brothers in Libya, Egypt, and Chechnya. Allah is with us, and Islamic State shall rule the earth.”
“Amin.”
“Are you ready? We’ll be there soon.”
“Can’t we stop to pray? I’m a little nervous.”
“Why?”
“Because this is the hardest part for me.”
“These are infidels, the enemies of the calipha
te.”
“I know. But they still don’t have weapons. I can’t stand their wailing.”
“I don’t like killing them, either, but it must be so. For Allah.”
“Can’t they just be chased away?”
“No. In the Kingdom of God there is no room for infidels. Remind yourself that we are doing this for Kingdom of God. The Kingdom of God is approaching, and each day it is closer, if we perform our duty well.”
“Amin.”
Commander Nesrin sprang up from the ground. She climbed to the top of the shack. We heard the crackle of machine guns—AK-47s—erupting in the distance. The water brought us the sound. From the top of the shack, Commander Nesrin issued commands to the howitzer teams, who had taken aim. In the end, though, she did not give the order to shoot, because they were beyond firing range and she didn’t want to waste the ammunition.
After five minutes on standby the soldiers returned, and sat down in front of the shack. No one said a word. Everyone could hear the shots from afar.
The whole thing lasted a half-hour. Finally all that could be heard was, once again, the rustling of the reeds and the croaking of the frogs. The wind picked up in the afternoon. It brought with it a heavy, burnt smell.
The Trial
We put the two machine guns on the kitchen table. “I’ll take them to headquarters,” said the colonel to the boys, who then stepped back outside as he closed the door. The engine started up and the jeep took off, carrying the fellows we’d spent four nights with in the desert.
It was a radiant Thursday afternoon. The sun was shining over Sulaymaniyah, and we’d returned safe and sound from the front at Khanaqin. Not even the truck had a scratch.
The colonel—Hesin was his name—lived in a two-story, American-style single family home. He’d furnished it with good taste and modern accoutrements. Compared to those unwashed desert nights and the smoky tea we’d warmed in tin cans over open fires, we were now beset by unimaginable luxury. Since arriving in Iraqi Kurdistan, I’d spent nearly every waking moment with the colonel. He spoke English well, so I, the foreign correspondent, had been assigned to him. We went together to the front, where, all night in the desert, together we awaited the attack. We ate the same food and drank the same drinks. Because the peshmerga fighting on the front couldn’t pronounce my Hungarian name, he accorded me the princely title Sardar, adding the honorific term Kak before it, hence making me Kak Sardar. But after the first battle he also called me “Brother,” as he did the peshmerga. We liked each other.
“I feel really sick, brother,” said the colonel with a grin as I removed the camera from my backpack and set the battery and memory card on the table.
“You look horrible,” I replied.
“You seem sick, too.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You need medicine.”
“Yes, urgently.”
The colonel stepped to the refrigerator, opened the door, and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels.
He poured a decent amount into two glasses, adding ice in each, and then handed one glass to me.
“Fuck ISIS!”
We drank. The whiskey washed the past four days’ constant drizzle of sand down our throats. The moment I put down my glass and he did his, the colonel refilled each one.
“Fuck Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi!”
“Fuck Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi!”
Again we drank.
“Forgive me for saying so, Kak Sardar,” said the colonel with a grin as he again put down his glass, “but you stink.”
“I know. I’m off to wash up.”
“Very well, I’ll order something to eat in the meantime.” “You stink, too.”
I gave the colonel a slap on the back and headed upstairs. On the way up the marble steps it seemed inconceivable to me that a war was going on 200 kilometers away.
And yet there was a war. Two weeks earlier the Islamic State offensive had been halted barely twenty kilometers from Erbil. All of Kurdistan had been focused on the war: men young and old, women and children, had all gone to the front. They had to. Everyone knew what to expect of the caliph, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi. We’d seen it full well for ourselves.
The charred corpses of Sunni Muslims had been piled up by the bushel in ditches dug by backhoes: those the caliph had no use for had been doused with gasoline and set alight. Worst of all was the sight of burnt children. It was easy tell their bodies apart from those of the women and elderly on account of their smaller size. The fire had shrunken them even more.
The bathroom was spacious, with white tile walls and a metal shower stall. As I loosened my laces and then slipped off my boots, the sand poured out. I undid my belt and unbuttoned my shirt. I really did stink.
For three days and nights I’d been in the desert in the same clothes, my shirt drenched with sweat and then drying and then getting soaked yet again. As I now saw, the salt had formed white splotches on my chest and underarms.
I finished undressing and turned the tap. The hot water fogged up the shower’s glass door at once. The sand still clinging to my skin began flowing off, and it seemed as if the water was washing away even the images etched into my brain, from mass graves to the expressions on the faces of dead peshmerga. Pressing my forehead to the tile wall, I stood under the shower for a long time.
I was drying myself with one of the colonel’s towels when he stopped by the bathroom door, which was slightly ajar, holding two glasses of whisky.
“Drink this, then come down. We’ve got to have a word about something.”
He pressed the glass into my hand, we clinked glasses, and we drank up. He then hurried back down the stairs. After getting dressed, I went down as well.
He was in the living room staring at his laptop, which he shut on seeing me.
“I’ve got to go to headquarters.”
“What happened?”
“The boys caught one of them.”
I sat down at the table and refilled both glasses with whiskey, handing one to the colonel.
“Can I go with you?”
“You can’t write anything about it. This is top secret. Journalists can’t go in there.”
“I understand.”
“I’ll say you’re a volunteer under my command.”
We clinked glasses.
“Get ready. We’re going in a moment. Have something to eat.”
I got up and went to the kitchen. I opened the fridge. I found a chunk of cheese. I sat down and ate. The bell rang. The colonel opened the door.
He spoke in Kurdish with whoever it was. He then came into the kitchen.
“We’re going, brother.”
I got up from the table. At the door was a soldier who looked about thirty and was in a traditional peshmerga outfit. I threw on my blazer and headed off.
We went in a Toyota flatbed pickup. All three of us sat up front, the soldier at the wheel and the colonel between us. The two of them spoke, in Kurdish, for the length of the thirty-minute drive, which took us between the mountains through the lit-up nighttime city. I stared at stores’ neon lights and at all the people milling about and chatting in front of cafés. It didn’t seem like war.
Finally we turned onto the mountain road leading to the military headquarters, which in turn soon came into view, surrounded by a six-foot-high fence topped off with barbed wire. In the watchtowers, guards holding Russian-made PKM machine guns stared out over the landscape, their breaths visible against the glare of the spotlights.
A cluster of tanks surrounded the entrance booth. The guard stepped to the window, Kalashnikov in hand, as we stopped. Pointing at me, the colonel said something in Kurdish. The guard gave me a once-over and waved us on.
We stopped by the front door. The colonel got out and went inside. I followed him down a dimly lit hallway and then down a long flight of stairs to the cellar, where the holding cells were.
“We caught him in Jalawla,” said the colonel. “He wanted to sneak in to our base in Khanaqin.”
“I see.”
“He was armed. We suspect he wanted to assassinate someone. So far he hasn’t confessed a thing.”
Beside the stairs was a desk, by which sat another soldier. He saluted on seeing the colonel, who waved a hand and then leaned over the desk and signed a sheet of paper. He motioned for me to follow him.
“The reason you can follow me is that at the moment I’m the highest-ranking officer in the city. The entire high command is at Khanaqin.”
The soldier led us down the hallway, which was flanked by rusted metal doors. He then stopped by one, took out a key, and opened it.
It was dark inside. Only after several long seconds could we make out the furnishings. In the middle of the room was a big long table, beside it a metal chair, to which a boy of about seventeen was handcuffed. He blinked in the sudden light, and I could now clearly see his face, caked with dried blood.
The colonel stepped in. I followed. The soldier shut us in. The colonel turned on the room’s only light, a single bulb.
“As-salamu alaykum,” said the colonel in Arabic by way of greeting. “How are you, follower of the caliph?”
“I really need to use the toilet,” the boy replied. “Please let me go.”
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Ahmed Al Bahiza.”
“Where are you from?”
“Bahiza”
“What were you up to in Khanaqin, Ahmed?”
“I’ve really got to go, please let me out.”
“You went to Khanaqin to kill someone. Who?”
“No, my mother lives in Khanaqin. I was going to visit her.”
“With a gun?”
“There’s a war on.”
“You won’t be going to the toilet anytime soon, Ahmed.”
“I beg you to let me out,” said the boy hysterically. “I’m going to piss my pants.”
“Take a load of this scum, this Arab killer, Kak Sardar,” said the colonel, turning to me.
“I’m not a killer,” said the boy.
The colonel slapped the boy, who toppled over along with his chair.
“Talk when I ask you to,” said the colonel.
The child sobbed on the floor. He pissed his pants.
“How disgusting!” said the colonel. “Is this proper behavior on jihad?”
The Most Beautiful Night of the Soul Page 5
