by Ethan Jones
Javin waved the bags at Issawi and al-Razi, but both men shook their heads. It was one of the few times they had agreed on anything.
Javin said, “Tom, dates? Figs?”
“No, I’m okay,” he said.
Javin tied the bags, then whispered, “We’ll take these to Ghanem. A gift that perhaps might make things smoother.”
Al-Razi said, “I doubt it. There are other, better ways to make her talk.”
“We’ll try the soft approach and see where it takes us. As per our original plan, Claudia and I will go to do the interview. Make sure the area around the tent is secure, with no one eavesdropping,” he said in a hushed voice. “We’ll stop at a couple of other tents before we get to hers, so that it’s not obvious why we came here, in case someone is watching.”
“I haven’t seen anyone,” Issawi said. “And we’ve all been very careful.”
“There are always people watching. Daesh is not dead,” al-Razi said.
Javin shrugged. “Let’s keep our eyes open. We’re journalists and that fact alone draws attention.”
“And your gifts didn’t help,” Issawi said.
“Let’s go,” Javin said.
He nodded at Tom, who stepped in front of them. “Which one is the first?”
“Let’s go for this one.” He pointed at the top of the list.
The team spent fifteen minutes interviewing a middle-aged man, then a young woman with three children. They did not have much useful information and none of the intelligence that the team could use in its operation. Then, Javin and Claudia moved toward the tent of Ghanem, the promising ISIS widow. Her tent was one of the cleanest, and it seemed it was also slightly larger than the ones next to her. They were all white sun-washed canvas with the UNHCR blue logo on the side. A woman was talking to a couple of children near the entrance to the tent. It sounded like she was scolding them, then took away from one of the children a date and a fig. The woman sniffed at the fruit, then sent the children away. Once they had disappeared around the tent, the woman plopped the date into her mouth.
At that exact moment, Javin stepped closer to the tent. He gave the woman the customary Muslim greeting, then said, “Excuse me, we’re journalists, and we’d like to talk to Ms. Huda Yusuf Ghanem, if that’s possible.”
The startled woman almost choked on the date. She swallowed it quickly, then said, “She doesn’t want to talk to journalists, so go—”
“Actually, I want to talk to them,” a loud angry voice came from inside.
“Is that you, Ms. Ghanem?” Javin stepped closer to the tent.
The woman shook her head and stepped in front of Javin. “She doesn’t want—”
“I think she said something else...”
“Yes, let them in, right now.”
Javin shrugged at the woman. “She disagrees.”
The woman gave Javin and Claudia a stern frown and moved away from the tent’s entrance.
Javin removed his shoes and placed them next to the others lined up outside the entrance. He ducked his head and entered the tent. It had a plushy red-and-brown carpet with a flowery motif. A woman, whom he recognized as Ghanem, dressed in a black abaya and niqab, was sitting cross-legged on a blue mat near the opposite corner of the tent, across from a small tube television set. She hurried to cover the front of her face with the fold of her headdress, then continued to tend to a small child. He was the boy who had received the largest portion of the dates and figs. His shirt was covered in dirt, and he had streaks of tears along his face.
“What ... what happened to him?” Javin asked after greeting Ghanem and introducing himself and Claudia.
“A group of older rascals beat him and took the fruit a generous man had given him. Take a seat.”
“It’s good to meet you.” Claudia sat next to Javin, opposite to the woman.
The child turned his head toward Javin, and his eyes sparked with recognition. He whispered something to his mother, who cocked her head in surprise. “It was you.”
“Yes. A small gesture—”
“Of stupidity. Didn’t you think of what would happen if you treat some people differently than the rest?”
Javin blinked back his surprise. What happened to “a generous man?” “I was trying to be helpful. Of course, I can’t give dates to everyone. But that’s not a reason to not help the ones I can.” He placed the bags of dates and figs near Ghanem’s feet. “Like in this case. A gift for you and your family.”
She studied Javin’s face for a long moment as he gave her a genuine smile. Then Ghanem took a handful of dates from the bag and gave them to her son. He devoured one as Ghanem asked him to leave them, but not until after he had turned on a small fan near the television set. The fan began to move the hot muggy air around.
Ghanem winced as she shifted her body weight, trying to get more comfortable on the mat. She seemed to be leaning more on her left side and moved her right arm very little.
Javin asked, “What happened to you?”
Ghanem shrugged. “What do you mean?”
“The injury. How did that happen?”
Ghanem gave Javin a sideways glance. “You’re very attentive, Mr. Pierce.”
“What can I say, I’m a journalist.”
“What do you want to ask me?”
You never answered my earlier question. “We’re working on a reportage about life in Mosul, in the camp, how things might get better now that there is no ISIS.”
His words drew out no reaction from Ghanem. He was not expecting one from the hardened woman. She sighed and said, “Things are actually worse than when our husbands and brothers were caring for us, providing us with food and a home.”
“When was that? When ISIS was in power in Mosul?”
Ghanem nodded. “Yes, that was when Allah granted them the power to bring his glorious law into our city and land. Before the infidels and the apostates killed, and wounded, and displaced so many of us innocent people from our homes.”
Ghanem spent the next few minutes complaining about the situation in the camp. She made constant comparisons to the high standard of living and the freedom everyone enjoyed when ISIS had established the caliphate and had put in place the Sharia, or the Islamic law. Ghanem said that people were happy; there were plenty of jobs and opportunities for everyone. She lamented that now life was so hard.
“And do you think ISIS will return to Mosul and Iraq?” Javin asked.
Ghanem offered a nod and she seemed to smile, although Javin could not be certain because of the veil across her face. “The fighters never left. They are still here, around, and inshallah, they will once again give us back our city and our lives.”
“Do you happen to know any of them?”
“I saw many of them when we lived in Mosul. My husband, he worked with them.”
“He was a fighter?”
“No, he worked as a mechanic. He was fixing the new government’s cars and sometimes generators and other equipment.”
“He never fought the enemy?”
Ghanem thought about her answer for a moment. “He did, near the end, when we were all threatened with being killed if we did not fight back to defend our lives. That’s ... that’s when he ... he died.” Her eyes began to well up. “Now, without him, our family has no money, no hope, no future.”
“Can you go back to Mosul?”
“No, because of my husband, we’ve been branded an ISIS family. We are considered the enemy, so it is too dangerous to return to our house.”
Claudia leaned forward. “These ISIS fighters, the ones that you say never left. We’d like to interview them, so that we can—”
“So that they can be captured and killed?” Ghanem’s voice turned sharp and cold.
“No, no, no,” Javin said. “We’d like to hear their side. We’d like to give them a chance to tell their truth, give them a voice, the same way that we’re doing with you.”
“The western media always distorts the truth. You always tell lies.�
�
Javin nodded. “So help us to tell the truth. We’d like to interview these courageous men that are determined to give you back hope. I promise, we’ll have a good conversation with them.”
“We can meet them at a time and location of their choosing,” Claudia said.
Ghanem did not seem convinced. She kept shaking her head.
Javin said, “Well, why don’t we continue with some questions about how you see the ethnic interactions between the Sunnis and the Shias?”
The question sent Ghanem into a long rant about the miserable conditions of the people living under the heel of the Shia militias. She did not spare curses on the Shia fighters and their families, denouncing the atrocities she claimed were taking place on a daily basis.
Javin was familiar with similar allegations. Videos of beatings, torture, and executions, allegedly committed by the Shia militias and also some of the Sunni fighters, were circulating on the Internet. Iraq was a revengeful land, and people disappeared or were executed, sometimes based on very little evidence or suspicion.
He took advantage of a brief pause as Ghanem was catching her breath to ask, “How do you feel here, inside the camp? Is it safe?”
“No, not really. We are often harassed, provoked. Sometimes, we are not given the food rations.”
“But is it better than going back to Mosul?”
Ghanem hesitated for a moment, then said, “Yes, I have to admit that it is better. Other women, who have gone back to their neighborhoods, were taken away by them.”
“Who are ‘them’?” Claudia asked.
“Do I need to make it plain for you? The government forces or those evil men the government allows to roam the streets of Mosul. Those are the ones who took away these innocent women.”
Javin said, “Besides your husband, did you lose other family members?”
Ghanem did not respond right away. She looked at the tent wall, then away in the distance. “I ... I lost two brothers. Then I have, well, had a sister. She ... she disappeared when we left Mosul, and we haven’t heard from her.” Her voice wavered, and she could scarcely hold back her tears.
“How long ago was that?” Claudia asked. She had leaned forward, but hesitated to touch Ghanem’s hand and comfort her, afraid she might misunderstand the gesture.
“It was two weeks, no, fifteen days ago.”
“And no news?”
Ghanem shook her head. “No, so we have no hope we will ever see her alive.”
Javin asked, “What do you think happened to her?”
“She was probably executed if someone recognized her and tied her to us, to me.” Ghanem paused and sniffled back tears. “It was my ... my fault. If she had come into our car, and we had room, she would be here with me.” Ghanem tapped the mat next to her.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Claudia said. “This is war.”
“And maybe she’s still alive,” Javin said. “Perhaps someone can help you find her.”
“Who? Who will do that? No one is looking for missing family members with links to ISIS. But we had to cooperate, or we would be killed. What choice did we have?”
Javin nodded. The choice was obvious: resist the evil that the ISIS extremists had embodied, and fight them everywhere, at all times, before they became too strong. But most of Mosul’s residents had welcomed the ISIS butchers as saviors who would liberate them from the hated and distrusted regime of Baghdad, which was Shia dominated. The Iraqi military melted away, leaving state-of-the-art weaponry to fall into the hands of the extremist fighters, which emboldened them, swelling their ranks. Soon enough, the residents learned, to their shock, that ISIS turned out far from the generous and kind image they were trying to portray.
A thought materialized in Javin’s mind, and he decided to act upon it. “We’re journalists. Perhaps we can focus on her case to emphasize the need for closure and reconciliation. We will need more details, of course, but perhaps, after we’ve talked to those ISIS fighters who are still around, we can start to shed some light on what happened to her.”
Ghanem gave Javin a puzzled look. “ISIS fighters had nothing to do with my sister’s disappearance.”
“Right, but they might know the groups that were fighting them on that ... that day that was so bad for you and for her.”
Ghanem nodded slowly. “So, are you going to help me find my sister?”
Javin shrugged. “I can’t make any promises. However, if you arrange for us to meet with those ISIS leaders—or whoever you can find that agrees to talk to us—we will do the best we can to find her—”
“I’m not sure I can trust you...”
“Have I given you a reason not to?”
“No, but you’re a Westerner, and you can’t be trusted.”
Javin turned his body so he was closer to Ghanem. “Look, I can find information about ISIS members and their supporters from other residents in the camp or people who live in the city. But you ... how are you going to find your sister? You said it yourself no one will be looking for missing family members linked to ISIS.”
Ghanem nodded slowly.
Javin said, “Think about it. Your name will never come up. You can simply find where they are, and let us know about it. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”
Ghanem nodded again. “This ... this will take some time. And I want some assurance that you will not just take my information and give me nothing in return.”
“That’s only fair,” Claudia said. “What would be such an assurance?”
“Start looking for my sister, and I’ll start looking for someone willing to talk to you.”
“That’s very reasonable of you,” Javin said. “We’ll start right away with the camps around Mosul. Then, if we come up empty, we’ll expand the search to the wider region.”
“We’ll also ask our other media contacts,” Claudia said. “Some of them have talked to or are in the process of interviewing former ISIS members, like we want to do. Someone might know something.”
“Then you have a deal,” Ghanem said in a firm tone.
Javin said, “Just be prepared that the news might not be good. Even if found alive, your sister would have—”
“I know how badly she must have been treated. Probably it would have been better if she was killed on the spot. But ... I’d like to know for certain. Or have a body to cry over.” Tears began to run down her face. She turned her head to the other side and began to wipe her tears with her headdress.
“We’ll do what we can to help,” Javin said. “Like you will.”
“If you keep your part of the deal, I will surely keep mine.”
“I’m glad we came to this agreement, Ms. Ghanem. Now, we’ll just need a few details about your sister, and when you last saw her. And a picture, if you have any.”
Ghanem took another moment to compose herself, then reached for her phone in a small bag next to the TV. “I have several pictures of her right here.”
Javin and Claudia spent the next few minutes gathering specifics about Ghanem’s sister, Rania. When they were finished, Javin glanced at Claudia. “Any final questions?”
“No, I’m okay.”
“All right, well, thanks for your help. We truly appreciate it.”
“Inshallah, we’ll find something good about Rania. And soon.”
Ghanem said, “Yes, yes, inshallah.”
As they were leaving the tent, both Javin and Claudia missed the gaze of a young man studying them from a distance. He was trained in surveillance and dropped down near a garbage can, pretending to be looking for cigarette butts. After Javin and Claudia had passed him and met with their driver and two armed men waiting for them by the Nissan, the young man pulled out a cellphone. He snapped a few pictures of everyone, focusing mostly on the armed men. When he was finished, he dialed a number. When someone answered from the other end of the line, he said, “Put me through to the commander.”
He waited for a few seconds until the commander came to the phone, th
en the young man said, “The Canadian agents just finished talking to Ghanem.”
Chapter Four
Mosul, Iraq
The local police commander listened impatiently to the young man for about ten seconds, then interrupted him with a torrent of questions. The more the commander learned, the angrier he became. Sweat began to pour out of his brow, and he mopped it with the sleeve of his plaid shirt. He glanced around the small room, and his eyes went to his aide, standing near the window and paying attention to every single word of the conversation. The commander cursed out loud, then leaned closer to the phone he had placed on the table. “What exactly did she tell them?”
The young man hesitated for a moment, then said in a low, weak voice, “I ... I don’t know that, because—”
“You’re paid to learn everything that happens in the camp with regard to Ghanem and the others.”
“It was impossible, because of the policeman and the other gunman, a Shia.”
The commander cursed the Shia and his mother. “So we have no idea if she gave away our secret?”
“I don’t think so. She only talked to them for a few minutes, and this is the first time she met them. At worst, she promised them something, because the agents had this smug look on their faces as they came out.”
“All right. What else do you have?”
“Nothing, that’s it.”
“Stay with them, the Canadians and the locals helping these infidels. Don’t do anything, just keep track of where they are and what they’re doing.”
“Of course, I will surely do that,” the young man said, eager to end the difficult conversation.
The commander ended the call, then punched the wall of the room. The framed portrait of the Governor of Ninewa—the province where Mosul was the capital—shook, and it looked like it was going to fall to the floor. It did not, but it remained there lopsided. The commander shrugged and reached for the phone. “I’m calling the governor.” He dismissed the aide with a flick of the wrist.
The governor’s phone rang for a long time, but there was no answer. The commander hung up and redialed. This time, the governor picked up after the fourth ring. “What is it, Zweiri?”
