Page 40 of There Are Rivers in the Sky

H— NARIN

By the River Tigris, 2014

T he Ancient Mesopotamians believed mountains to be alive. Borders connecting the terrestrial and the celestial, in-between spaces. The fingers of earth jutting out as though hoping to touch the skies. One of the oldest words found in archaeological excavations is hursag – ‘mountain’.

In the same tradition, Sinjar is more than a mountain. The highest peak in a hundred-kilometre range, for centuries it has been a sanctuary for the persecuted and the oppressed. Countless people have taken refuge in its small caves and craggy gulleys. At its base nestles the Sharfadin Temple, eight hundred years old, built of pale yellow stone with two cones atop its roof. Every inch of this landscape is holy to the Yazidi faith.

Across the flat, barren expanse and up the rocky terrain moves an endless stream of human beings – raddled bodies push against gravity. Mothers clutch their babies; pregnant women try to protect the precious life within. Children, dazed and disorientated, trudge silently, too scared to cry. An elderly woman begs her family to leave her behind to die. They all keep climbing, hundreds and thousands, carrying their limbs like hollow reeds. Here, above the tree line, there is no shade to be found, and the sun beats down. The heat rising from the baked ground twists and writhes to form a ghostly calligraphy.

When they halt, no longer able to ascend, sweat trickling down their backs, Grandma takes out their only bottle of water. Using its plastic lid as a measure, she fills it carefully, making sure not to waste any, and gives it to Narin.

‘I want some, too, please,’ says a plaintive voice.

Grandma turns to see a girl of about five, her eyes sunken and sorrowful. She pours water into the lid, offers it to her. Immediately, a boy appears by her side, perhaps her brother.

‘Me, too.’

Grandma’s hand falters. This is their only bottle and she was planning to save it for Narin. But how can she deny water to any child? Smiling at the boy, she does her best to ration the life-giving liquid. More children line up before her, waiting patiently while their parents watch with doleful eyes. Grandma administers her paltry contribution, allotting a few kind words and a few drops to each, barely enough to moisten the lips and dampen the throat.

That night, on the slopes of Mount Sinjar, no one can sleep. Families huddle together. The temperature, which rose to 48°C during the day, plunges to 10°C. Grandma wraps Narin in her shawl to stop her from shivering. There is a fluency to her moves, a fierce determination.

‘We will survive this, my heart.’

Narin’s bottom lip sags. She tries very hard not to cry.

Grandma plants kisses on her fingertips, one by one, like she used to do when Narin was little.

‘You must listen to me now. Whatever happens, tell it to the water. It will take away all the pain and fear. And, even if you cannot find a flowing stream, remember it is in you. You are made of water.’

Narin cannot stop trembling. Grandma pulls her towards her chest, holding her in a place other than where they are now.

As dawn breaks, a group of boys volunteer to walk to an old fountain at the base of the mountain. They take empty bottles and jugs, as many as they can possibly carry. Then they slowly start their descent.

Further down, where the track crosses a small clearing with clumps of bushes and shrubs, ISIS lie in wait. From their hiding place, the militants watch the youngsters break into a trot at the sight of water. They watch them drink hurriedly and fill their containers to the brim, their hands shaking from nervous haste. And then they watch them turn towards the mountain where their loved ones are waiting. Only then do they open fire. Bullets pierce the jugs, water mixes with blood. Of those who went to the fountain, no one comes back.

Up in the mountain, closer to the cloudless sky, another day goes by. Babies keep crying, though their voices are noticeably weaker. It is the elderly who succumb first, and the toddlers, dying of thirst and exhaustion, one after the other. The families do what they can to conceal the bodies, but the children see everything, even as they stare into the distance, a listlessness to their expressions, an inwardness. Their cheeks look hollow and waxy, as if sculpted out of old candles.

The next day rumours spread that the Americans are dropping caches of supplies. Some tins land on cushioning soil, others hit rocks, splitting and leaking their contents. The young rush to pick up the residues; mothers scrape up food with their fingernails and try to rub it inside their babies’ mouths. People say the Americans are also supplying axes and shovels – for digging graves.

None of this largesse reaches their group. On the fourth morning, as death quickens its pace, Grandma gives the last of the water she has so carefully guarded to Narin. She places the drop from a plastic bottle with a blue lid on the girl’s tongue as though it were a precious pearl.

She has no way of knowing, but this last drop on Mount Sinjar in August 2014 is the same one that fell on Nineveh one stormy afternoon, thousands of years back, settling in the hair of King Ashurbanipal.

‘I must find water.’

Narin, lying down, sits up. ‘No, don’t go anywhere.’

‘My heart … children are dying, I must help.’

Grandma removes a strand of hair from Narin’s face. The girl’s lips are cracked and swollen, and her pallor is so otherworldly that the old woman fears she has already passed the point of no return. ‘You need to stay here with the others. Promise? I will ask a family to keep an eye on you.’

Narin lowers her gaze, and, though the day is scorching, she feels a shiver run down her spine. She simply says, ‘Be careful, please.’

‘I will, I promise. I’ll be back soon. Remember, Narin, in the blackest sky there is a star glimmering high above, in the deepest night, a candle burning bright. Never despair. You must always look for the nearest source of life.’

Grandma is a water-dowser.

Grandma is a spring-finder.

Grandma takes out a forked branch that she picked up on the way and whittles it down with a knife. She would much rather use a branch from a willow tree for dowsing, but this will have to do. Should she locate a spring under the ground, it will not be possible to drill, but with the axes and shovels they can dig. There must be water somewhere nearby, and she believes she can find it.

Grandma trudges with heavy steps, her blood thick from dehydration. Even so, her concentration is fierce, her eyes focused on the ground, and in this way she proceeds, hearing nothing but the call of a hidden reservoir.

Time plods on as wearily as she. The wind whistles its songs. Ignoring the protests of her swollen feet and aching limbs, Grandma leaves the trail behind and keeps going. Thorns tear at her dress; thistles snag her ankles. She cannot stop blaming herself. She feels responsible for bringing Narin to Iraq. They should have never left Castrum Kefa, even though Castrum Kefa was leaving them. Her eyes well up and her vision blurs. Sweat runs down her neck. Yet she must carry on. She cannot return to her people empty-handed.

In a little while, her palms go cold, as if she has touched a block of ice. Her forehead furrows. It is never a pleasant experience, dowsing. She is spent, yet the pull she now feels is stronger than she is weak. The rod twitches. Here, under this parched earth, is the source. A tremor rises in her chest and spreads down to her fingertips. It is definitely here, she can sense it. Now she must go back and inform the others that she has found water.

Just as the old woman imagines imparting that news, her breath catches in her throat. Her gut clenches. For she has heard a sound that does not belong here. A low snide snigger. She half turns her head. No further away than the length of her shadow, staring at her from behind the barrel of a gun, is an ISIS militant watching her. She has strayed too close to the base of Sinjar.

‘What are you doing, old crone?’

Someone chuckles. The man is not alone. They are patrolling the area, five of them, hunting down Yazidis searching for water.

Grandma clasps her hands to stop them shaking. She looks away. Even if she could speak Arabic, she would not respond. She will not give them the satisfaction of seeing fear on her face.

‘You have nothing to say?’ says the militant.

‘Hey, look what I found here!’ shouts another militant from behind sparse bushes nearby. As the men exclaim back and forth, their voices buffeted by the wind, Besma cannot follow what they are saying at first. But then, amid the clamour, she hears a beloved voice. Her entire body freezes.

‘Grandma!’

Narin does not like it when her grandmother leaves her behind, so she has followed her.