Page 36 of There Are Rivers in the Sky

H— NARIN

By the River Tigris, 2014

T hey kill the water first. In this land where rivers are sacred and every drop of rain is a blessing, they creep in at dead of night and poison all the wells, shafts and fountains in the village. The next morning the inhabitants of Zêrav wake up to a shocking sight. Slabs of concrete, metal debris and sacks of pesticides have been dumped into every source of water.

Several men volunteer to walk to the next Yazidi village to ask for help, only to find out that they, too, have suffered similar devastation and are in desperate need. The only drinkable water is kilometres away. The group, now larger, decide to go check on their Muslim neighbours. They are surprised to see that their fountains have been left untouched. It is only the water in the Yazidi settlements that has been tampered with. Some families take pity on them, but others shut the doors in their faces, saying they will not assist heathens. In the end they return with a few containers filled. Exhausted by the heat, on the way back they drink a little and save the remainder, knowing that their loved ones are counting on them.

The rest of the day goes by painfully slowly, the sun a ball of fury. Later in the afternoon, streaks of clouds needle the sky, but rain does not materialize. The villagers try to clear the fountains as best they can. Children move away stones, men haul out concrete slabs, and women use their scarves to filter out the debris. In the past they had the river to fall back on, but the Tigris is also polluted. A melancholy fervour takes hold of everyone. There is something almost sacrilegious in witnessing clean water being deliberately soiled.

Two days later, the enemy returns, this time to kill the trees. Always at night, shrouding themselves in darkness, they set fire to olive groves, turning whole fields into wastelands of charred stumps. They break off branches, spoil the fruit; they torch the shrubs and uproot tender saplings.

A lone tree burning bright against the sky is a sorrowful sight. But entire groves going up in flames, once glimpsed, will be forever branded on your memory. As dawn breaks, Narin sits by the window, watching a bird outside. A swift is building a nest in a crevice on the wall. Doggedly, the tiny creature carries sticks and straw, sculpting a space of its own. Witnessing this makes Narin sadder than anything – the realization that, while they are dealing with such hatred and hostility, life goes on. In her mind she keeps coming back to the same fearful question, like a sore tooth she cannot help probing with the tip of her tongue: an enemy who poisons water and torches trees – what will they do to human beings?

It is a good thing her father is not here. He will be safer in Baghdad. But she also knows if something were to happen to her and Grandma, he would never forgive himself. The child is shivering, even though the day is so hot she can smell the crushed apricots mouldering in the garden, a cloying scent of decay.

Father calls the following afternoon. He says as he was driving north after performing at a wedding he was arrested at a checkpoint and held in custody without being charged. He sounds tired and listless – but that instantly changes when Narin tells him what is happening in the village.

‘They poisoned the water?’

‘Yes, they also burned the trees. Do you know who is doing this?’

‘I don’t know – must be a few fanatics.’

‘Grandma is very worried. She keeps praying. When are you coming back?’

‘I’m on my way.’ Khaled pauses. ‘I had no idea, I’m very sorry. I’ll be there before you know it.’ Another pause, this one longer. ‘Maybe we should return to Hasankeyf.’

‘But what about my baptism? We were going to visit the Valley of Lalish next week. I prepared my dress.’

‘I know, sweetheart, but … this place doesn’t feel safe.’ He clears his throat, realizing he should not alarm the child unnecessarily. ‘I don’t expect these fanatics to do anything more extreme. They don’t have that kind of power. They’re just trying to intimidate us. That’s what bullies do. But, don’t forget, there are armed Kurdish forces guarding every Yazidi village. The peshmerga will protect you. So no need to worry – you’ll be safe.’

‘I’m not worried,’ says Narin, lifting her chin with a bravado she does not entirely feel.

‘That’s my girl,’ says her father.

Narin presses the phone against her right ear, her good one. ‘I keep hearing a ringing noise. It’s started hurting again.’

‘Has it now? I’ll come and kiss it better.’

‘Grandma says it’s bad luck to kiss your loved one on their eyes or their ears – it means farewell.’

‘Grandma is a wise woman, but she’s not always right.’

Narin holds her breath, sensing the undertone in her father’s voice. Is he blaming her grandmother for insisting that they should travel to Iraq this summer?

‘Do you regret coming here, Daddy?’

‘No, no,’ Khaled says quickly. ‘But I think we’d better cut the trip short and return home. Anyway, we’ll talk when I arrive. I’ll be with you tomorrow.’

Her father cannot make it back the next day. Nor the one after that. The roads are blocked, and he is forced to take a long detour to reach Zêrav. He will have to stay a night or two in another Yazidi village. He needs to be careful, for there are rumours of abductions. But it is hard to gauge the true extent of the threat. Yazidis, Christians, Jews, Mandeans and Muslims who openly condemn the fanatics are all said to be in danger.

Meanwhile, sitting by the radio, Grandma listens to the news with a troubled expression. Ever since they contaminated the wells, she has not slept properly. She walks around the village at odd hours of the night, and by the singed trees in the daytime, her face turned towards the sun, attentive to the whistle of the wind through the reeds. Narin wonders what she hears and why she doesn’t share it with her.

The next morning, Grandma is on the roof, as usual, performing the first prayer of the day. Her breath stalls in her chest as she senses something is wrong. And then she knows – the Kurdish forces protecting the village are nowhere to be seen. They are all gone! The peshmerga – ‘those who face death’ – have left, taking their weapons with them.

News arrives that eighteen thousand Kurdish troops in Nineveh alone have withdrawn in one night, leaving Yazidis completely defenceless. Fear, like a sander clamping a piece of wood, presses on their hearts, cold and heavy. In strained tones they debate what to do, but it is impossible to know in the absence of reliable information. What would be safer – stay or go? What if this is their last chance to run away? But, then, what if it is a trap to make them leave the village, so that others can appropriate their homes and lands? Families quarrel; friends fall into disagreement. In the end, they decide to put up white flags on the windows and wait.

In the village where Khaled is planning to stay overnight three trucks drive up the road, raising clouds of dust. The vehicles, mounted with machine guns and carrying militants clad in black fatigues, enter the main street, revving their engines, screeching their tyres. The militants have covered their faces with improvised balaclavas. All have semi-automatic rifles.

‘Get out of your homes, now!’

A squat man with a close-clipped beard and hair the colour of straw seems to be the one giving orders. He does not speak Kurdish or Arabic. There is someone next to him translating his words.

Khaled, watching from the window, recognizes the person helping the fanatics. It is Hajji Amer. Khaled has welcomed this man at so many weddings and celebrations, broken bread with him, shared stories with him and considered him a trusted friend all these years – this man who is now shouting through a loudspeaker, ‘Bring your money – and mobile phones.’ His voice is brimming with something close to excitement. He seems to be enjoying his new-found power. ‘Rings, bracelets, watches, necklaces, earrings … anything of value! Hand them all over!’

Behind closed doors, families are petrified, too frightened to move.

‘If you do as we say, nothing will happen. You’ll drop your things and go home. But if you hide anything we’ll find it and we’ll punish you all!’

One by one, doors open, fearful faces emerge. Men carry phones, money, even the gold bracelets given to their wives as wedding presents.

‘Don’t forget ID papers, credit cards, car keys … bring them all! Don’t be afraid. Your safety is guaranteed by the Islamic State.’

Khaled drags himself out of the house with his mobile, wallet and passport. He has hidden his Turkish phone inside his sock and now he moves slowly, as though wading through water, never tearing his gaze from his old friend. Hajji Amer has not seen him yet; his back is turned to Khaled as he scurries this way and that, eagerly conveying the militants’ instructions.

‘I said everyone! Women and the children, too. Not a single person can stay behind. Get out, all of you!’

On a blanket spread on the ground the families drop their valuables and take a step back. Soon a large pile is amassed – a jumbled heap of documents and treasures, their glassy edges and metal surfaces catching the rays of the sun.

‘Is this all? Liars! What else have you got?’

‘This is everything,’ says the mukhtar , the village leader. ‘Can we return to our houses? The children are scared.’

‘You’ll leave when we tell you!’ says Hajji Amer. ‘First, we’ll check if you’re telling the truth.’

They ransack every house, smashing crockery, knocking over stools and cradles, making as much noise as possible. By contrast, back in the square, save for the cry of a baby and the hush of a mother, silence reigns. Fear marring their features, the villagers wait.

‘All men and boys over twelve move to my right! Women and girls and younger children – you stay over there!’

Hajji Amer, the loudspeaker still in his hand, swivels his eyes around. His gaze, scanning the villagers, lands on Khaled, and for a second he looks startled, in the manner of someone stepping from bright sunlight into a dark room. But he quickly wipes any trace of recognition from his features.

‘The Caliphate is being merciful towards you. We’ll give you a chance to convert. If you agree, nothing will happen to you. But, if you refuse, we will expel you from your village. You have five minutes to decide.’

‘We don’t need time to decide.’ Khaled steps forward, compelling the other man to look him in the eye. ‘We’ll never abandon our faith. But you must know this – as the kreef of two boys in this village. You’ve attended our weddings and circumcisions. Have you forgotten?’

Khaled will never know if any of this is translated to the leader of the militants. The armed group are already forcing all Yazidi men to march eastwards in single file. Now the silence is replaced by cries and screams.

‘Move!’

‘Where are you taking us?’ asks Khaled.

‘You’re going on a walk.’

They trudge through fields, as yet unharvested, the militants behind them, prodding and pushing stragglers. Khaled glances down at the crops crushed beneath their feet – aubergines, peppers, barley, wheat, tomatoes … He has never been fond of aubergines, but if he survives this day he will eat them gladly.

They arrive at a water cistern where the militants order everyone to stop. Twenty metres wide and three metres tall, the underground reservoir must have once been used to irrigate the fields, but now it is empty.

‘Move closer!’

‘You want us to go down there?’ Khaled asks. As he peers into the gaping concrete maw the terrifying thought crosses his mind that they will be forced together into that dark, confined, airless space and held prisoner.

‘Stop asking questions and do as we say.’

All the captives, young and old, are forced to step up on to the concrete edge. A teenager with peach fuzz on his lip is trembling so uncontrollably that he can barely stand. Khaled grips the boy’s arm to steady him. He tries to say something to comfort him, but his mouth is dry and all he can mutter is, ‘Quiet, my child. This is our Fate. Trust in God.’

They hear a curse behind them, hurled in mindless rage. A word crackles in the air like shattered glass.

‘Infidels!’

His heart pumping harder, Khaled lifts his chin. When he glances over his shoulder, he finds Hajji Amer staring straight at him. For a second their eyes meet. In the gaze of the man he once called a friend Khaled searches for a sign of shame or guilt or even pity, anything at all, but there is nothing there; it is as empty as the cistern below.

‘Shoot!’

They open fire all at once. Shouting ‘God is great’ in Arabic, they gun down sixty-four Yazidi men and boys who have no weapons, no way of defending themselves. One after another the bodies fall into the void.

‘Some are still alive!’ a man yells. ‘Aim for their heads!’

It takes only two and a half minutes to execute sixty-four human beings. The time for a drop of rain to reach the ground.

Inside the cistern it is very cold. A sour stench pervades the air – of cordite, blood, urine and something like rotting apples. Khaled draws a ragged breath. He knows he is dead, he must be, but how is it possible that he can still smell, he thinks to himself. His body feels numb, except for a burning pain boring into his thigh, where a bullet has pierced his flesh. Under and above him, warm and slippery, are corpses, crushing him from all sides. Fear has strangely disappeared, terror not yet sunk in. It is sadness that consumes his heart right now. It fills him with despair, the desolation of this place. The water reservoir has become a mass grave.

He can hear the militants laughing. Their voices are high-pitched, giddy with excitement, a thudding vibration that stifles all other sounds. Then comes the rumble of trucks driving away. He listens, attentive to the slightest rustle, trying to understand if anyone else might have survived. Not a single moan or whimper. He hears only the buzzing of a fly overhead. He can feel something wet running down his leg and he knows he is bleeding. He clenches his eyes shut, and would have kept them that way, if it were not for the thought of Narin. Somewhere out there, still part of this painful world, is his daughter and she needs him.

Inch by inch, Khaled levers himself out from under the tangle of twisted limbs and torsos. He notices he is still clutching the arm of the teenager, now lying motionless by his side, his eyes wide open. A howl escapes his lips.

Evening has descended by the time Khaled crawls out of the cistern. A sharp pain pulsates through him. He now understands there is a second bullet inside him, lodged somewhere close to his lower stomach. Gasping, he lies prone on the ground for some time, feeling the solid, warm earth. He rips a strip off his blood-soaked shirt and ties it around his thigh to slow the bleeding.

That is when he hears a ringing, the dancing jingle of a mobile phone. He has completely forgotten he still has it in his sock. His fingers shaking, he takes the phone out. It is his mother-in-law, Besma.

‘Khaled!’ The old woman wails as soon as he answers. ‘Oh, bless your voice. I feared something terrible happened to you. Daesh is coming, everyone is saying. We hung white flags.’

‘Mama – listen …’ He tries to raise his voice, for she keeps talking over him. ‘You must leave. You must run away now!’

‘What? What are you saying? We have white flags –’

‘Forget it. They don’t care about that! They are murderers. They are slaughtering the innocent.’

Besma falls silent.

‘You and Narin need to run. This moment. Tell others, please warn them, but do not stop to talk to everyone. Take my daughter – you must save her.’

‘Son, where do you want us to go?’

‘Go to the mountain,’ he says, running his tongue over his dry lips. ‘I’ll find you there. Go to Sinjar!’

Far ahead down the dusty track is a desolate farm. The farmer – a middle-aged Sunni Muslim man – sees him coming and takes him to his house. He offers him water and food. He tries to clean his wounds. The second bullet is buried too deep, Khaled knows.

The farmer’s aged mother watches from the corner, her lips moving in silent prayer, a string of beads in her hand. Tears run down her weathered face at the sight of his suffering. They do not speak. His head drooping, Khaled slumps on the floor, slipping in and out of consciousness, not sure whether they will shelter him or hand him over to the enemy.

Late at night, long before the sun rises, Khaled comes round and stirs. The farmer is waiting by the window, keeping an eye out. The man warns him Daesh have been threatening local families, saying that anyone found hiding Yazidis or Shias will be beheaded. He has prepared a bundle with some bread, yogurt and a bottle of water. His eyes are stricken with sorrow as he tells Khaled he cannot stay.

‘Narin … my heart.’

Leaning over the sleeping child, Grandma shakes her gently. ‘Wake up, my soul.’

The girl sits up. ‘What’s happening?’

‘We must get out of here. It’s not safe.’

‘But we put up a white flag. You said they wouldn’t harm us.’

‘Your father says not to trust ISIS, and I trust your father.’

Wordlessly, Narin gets out of bed and follows the old woman.

Outside, their relatives are waiting in their cars, babies under their arms, children sitting on top of each other, bags of food and provisions jammed between the legs of the adults. Narin realizes Grandma has not slept at all, going from door to door trying to convince others to come with them. Only a few families agreed. Quietly, they drive in the dark with their headlights off.

‘Where are we going?’ Narin asks, once they have left the village behind.

‘We’re going to Mount Sinjar.’

And the child remembers then. Sinjar – the sacred mountain where the Ark came to rest, floodwaters seeping through a hole in the hull. That is where a big black snake appeared and plugged the breach, saving humankind.

‘Like Baba Noah?’

‘Like Baba Noah, my love.’

About two hours into the drive, as dawn is breaking, there is a bend in the road where an ISIS truck equipped with heavy machine guns lies in wait. Families fleeing do not suspect anything until it’s too late. It’s an ambush. Here, in this way, over a hundred Yazidis are killed. The handful who manage to slip past unharmed stagger away, carrying injured relatives. Some of the abandoned cars burst into flames; others, their engines still running, tyres flat, glint in the sun like metal coffins.

Only a few drivers, spotting the trap at the last minute, skid off the main road, rattling over the fissures in the scorched earth. By some unfathomable stroke of luck, theirs is one of them. No one talks. Their faces waxen, they keep going. Fifty metres later the car comes to a stop, smoke pouring from the bonnet. Quickly, they get out and run towards Sinjar.

In the foothills they are joined by thousands of others. Dust, there is so much dust. Narin walks, holding on to her grandmother’s skirt. The ground starts to feel hot against the soles of her feet – cracked like a cast-off turtle shell. They are climbing the mountain – women, children, babies in arms. Above them, the sun, already high in the sky, burns fiercely. The temperature soars. There are no trees to offer shade, no springs to slake thirst, only dry, desolate earth. They all think the same thing, though no one will voice it out loud: how long can they possibly survive without water?

A human being needs about four litres of water every day. There are fifty thousand people under siege on Mount Sinjar.