Page 44 of There Are Rivers in the Sky

H— NARIN

By the River Tigris, 2014

H auled into a truck with dozens of women and children, Narin is transported in a convoy towards Mosul. Awash with anguish, she stands still, her face hard and rigid with fear. She has never felt so helpless, her loneliness so acute that it cuts through her ribcage. The wind rips at her hair, stings her face. She can detect the scent of wild herbs in the distance. Grandma has taught her how to distinguish them by smell – nettle, dandelion, mugwort … The familiar varieties tell her that they must not be too far from the shores of the River Tigris.

Narin knows two mighty streams flow through every human being: the good and the bad. Which course we choose to follow – through heart, spirit and mind – ultimately determines who we are. Some people will do everything they can to avoid hurting another person, even in the most desperate of situations, while others will inflict suffering as casually as if they were swatting away a fly.

In the stories Grandma narrated there were some reprehensible characters – callous kings who would marry a virgin each night, only to have them executed in the morning, greedy viziers plundering imperial coffers, marauders pouncing on travellers in the dark … but even the worst villains knew, deep down, that what they did was wrong. They did not pretend otherwise. They might try to justify their actions and even adopt the appearance of virtue to hoodwink others into thinking them good, but they did not, for a moment, imagine themselves to be virtuous. By contrast, the fanatics who slaughter the innocent and defenceless, pillaging villages, enslaving women and children, believe themselves to be holy. With every sorrow and suffering they rain on other humans, they expect to earn favour in the eyes of God, move closer to completing the bridge from this world to their exclusive paradise. How can anyone assume they will please the Creator by hurting His Creation? Nowhere in Grandma’s tales did even the most depraved practise such self-delusion.

The old woman’s words drift in the air, like the tail feather of a memory taking flight: 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. Narin lifts her chin, tears streaming down her cheeks. Where can she hope to find light when she is hemmed in by darkness?

Hours pass, and then the convoy pulls up in front of an imposing, historic building in Mosul that until recently was used for weddings and celebrations. Narin will only find out much later that this is where her father was scheduled to perform in about a week’s time.

More trucks and buses arrive. Women and children abducted from Yazidi settlements far and wide – Kocho, Tal Banat, Qiniyeh, Tal Qasab … Only then does it become apparent that these are not random acts of violence but a calculated campaign of unmitigated hatred, the extermination of an entire culture. In just a matter of hours communities have been laid waste, populations decimated, and more than half a million people forced to leave. All over Iraq the destruction unfurls, even in hospitals with some doctors escorting ISIS to wards housing Yazidi patients. Though the militants come from across the world, and some do not speak Arabic, many are old neighbours, collaborating with the killers.

Inside the building, Narin is thrust into a large hall lit with naked, fluorescent lights. The place is packed. Every few minutes, the double doors burst open and the militants strut in, either to bring in more captives or to drag a woman away. Those who try to resist are beaten. Panic streams into every corner. A young mother with a baby begs for mercy and they kick her until she faints. The screams of those who are pulled away penetrate the walls, haunting the ones left waiting. A girl vomits in a corner, heaving and coughing up bile. A sour, nauseating stench pervades the air.

Narin crouches with her back against the wall – a tiny ball of fear. Her fists are clenched so tightly that her fingernails dig into her palms, making marks like partridge footprints on the banks of the Tigris.

‘You all speak Arabic?’ asks a militant – arms akimbo, legs apart.

Most of the girls do not move but a few nod slightly. He yanks the nearest one towards him. She has been selected to translate.

‘Do you know why you’re here? It’s because your fathers are heathens,’ says the man. ‘Your mothers are kaffirs . All your ancestors are infidels and sinners. You and your people are devil-worshippers!’

Narin winces. She recalls the face of the bulldozer driver who interrupted her baptism, the cleaner at the hospital … All the people who have repeated the same awful words, over and again. How often in her young life has she heard this slander, and yet it still hurts like the very first time.

‘But we are merciful,’ says the militant. ‘We’ll give you a chance to repent. If you convert now, you may become lawful wives to our noble fighters. You can accompany a glorious army to jihad . I’m asking you for the first and last time: do you renounce your Godless ways?’

No one responds.

‘You either join us and earn a place in heaven. Or you remain an infidel and deserve whatever suffering comes your way. You have sixty seconds to decide – starting from now.’

The hush that descends on the hall is so thick that not a single whisper can be heard: the baby whimpering in his mother’s lap, the girl sobbing into a handkerchief, even the squeaking door hinges – all sound is momentarily suspended.

‘Your time is running out,’ shouts the man, enjoying the authority he finds himself invested with. ‘Twenty-two seconds left – is anyone going to convert? This is your final chance.’

All of a sudden, Narin leaps to her feet and shouts with all her might, shattering the silence.

‘Where is Grandma? What have you done to her?’

The child’s question, so unexpected, baffles the man. His confusion visible in his face, he stops counting.

‘My grandmother’s name is Besma,’ Narin screams in a voice that no longer sounds like hers. ‘Those awful men took her away. Has anyone seen Grandma?’

‘Shut the little bitch up!’ says the man who was giving orders earlier. ‘What is she – a simpleton or what?’

They seize Narin by the hair and drag her across the concrete floor like an empty sack. The pain, raking across her scalp, is so excruciating that she passes out. The din of the world fades.

When she comes to her senses, the hall is quieter. Most of the women and children have been taken away.

‘The idiot girl is awake,’ says one of the militants. He pokes the child with the top of his boot. ‘Stand up! Speak, what’s your name?’

‘She doesn’t understand Arabic,’ says another militant. ‘Only Turkish and Kurdish.’

‘I heard her grandmother call her Narin,’ says someone.

‘Narin,’ repeats the man as he writes her name down on a list. ‘Tell us, how old are you?’

As they ask someone to translate the question into Kurmanji, all Narin can hear is the pounding of her heart. She doesn’t know whether to reveal her actual age, or claim to be younger, or older, and what, if anything, would offer a chance of survival, if indeed there is one?

In the end she simply tells the truth. ‘Nine.’

‘Virgin,’ says the man. ‘She’d be a nice gift for the commander. He speaks Turkish. He’ll know how to tame her.’

‘You sure?’ says the other man. ‘She sounds like a trouble-maker.’

‘Send her along with the others,’ the first man replies, pointing to three young women crying in the corner.

‘Fine,’ the second man concedes. ‘Three beautiful sabaya for the commander – and we’ll throw in this morsel as well.’

A house in Mosul – a two-storey concrete dwelling with a satellite dish on the roof, an unkempt garden at the back, tomato plants in olive-oil tins arranged on the windowsills, the smell of heat baking into earth. This is where they are held prisoner: a family home, like any other, with children running around and chickens pecking in the yard.

A little boy watches from the hallway as the slaves are brought in, his dark eyes brimming with undisguised curiosity. He has a plaster on his forehead, just over his eyebrow, evidence of a recent accident. Narin looks at him and she wonders if the child has any idea what is happening under this roof.

‘Move,’ says a militant, nudging her with the butt of his rifle.

They are steered to a room upstairs with iron bars on the windows and locks on the door.

An hour goes by, perhaps more – they have no way of marking time. There is a bucket in the corner for when they need to relieve themselves. A constant shame, not of their own making, follows them wherever they go. Just outside, the light is a soft ochre, though further away the sky is darkening. They can hear people on the street going about their business. Somewhere nearby the clang of a pot on a burner suggests someone is cooking. A car passes beneath their window, music blasting. The familiar sounds of city life, usually so humdrum, serve only to intensify their feelings of helplessness.

A tall woman walks in without so much as glancing at them. She places a tray on the rug – flatbread with a bowl of yogurt, a jug of water. There are no spoons, no glasses. Even though they have not eaten anything all day, no one touches the food. But water they cannot refuse. As much as they try to drink in small sips, thirst takes over as they pass the jug around wordlessly.

In a little while the boy with the plaster comes in to pick up the tray. He also brings in a pile of brightly coloured garments – skimpy, lacy underwear. In a flat voice he tells them that his father wants them to put these on. As he says this, his stare falls on a floral bra, his expression betraying no understanding of the item, nor the implication behind his father’s demand.

None of the women agree to wear the lingerie. All of them are beaten for their disobedience.

That night, they curl up on one mattress. Sleep is impossible. It is hard to believe that just a few days ago they were waking up next to their loved ones. How is it that lives so tenderly and painstakingly built, year after year, can be shattered in a matter of hours?

The next morning the militants bring in another captive – a woman with large, beautiful, black eyes set in a pale, oval face. Sorrow has left its traces on her features.

‘Are you Besma’s grandchild?’ she says as soon as she sees Narin.

Gently, she walks towards the girl and sits by her side. ‘I’m Salma, my darling. From the village of Kocho. I heard you shouting at that disgusting man. I knew your grandma.’

‘You did?’

‘Years ago, when I was pregnant with my first child, we were visiting our relatives in Hasankeyf, and I almost had a miscarriage – your grandma saved my life.’

The woman falters then, seeing the child’s expression.

‘They took her away,’ says Narin. ‘I don’t know what they’ve done to her. I think they killed her.’

Salma leans back against the wall, steadying her breath. She will not tell Narin what ISIS is doing to the Yazidi women whom they regard as too old to serve as sexual slaves. Not wanting to waste a bullet, they bury them alive.

‘I’m so sorry, child. I’ll pray for her. I’ll never forget her kindness,’ says Salma. ‘But how is it you’re here? I thought your family were in Turkey.’

‘Grandma wanted me to see the village where great-great-grandma Leila was born … I was going to be baptized in the holy Valley of Lalish. We travelled with my father –’ Talking of her loved ones makes Narin’s stomach clench. The tears she has been holding back come streaming down.

‘You poor thing, let me hug you,’ Salma says. ‘May I?’

Narin wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. She nods, slowly.

Salma does not ask any more questions but continues to hold Narin until the girl falls asleep. She keeps close to the child at all times. She is compassionate, protective and loving.

It is Salma that the commander orders to his bedroom first, the following night.

Downstairs, there are three rooms and a kitchen where the commander lives with his family. The man is married with two young children and a baby still in the cradle. Every day a stream of ISIS militants come and go, collecting and passing on orders. Upstairs, next to where the captives are kept, is a large room with a balcony overlooking a busy street. This is where they hold their meetings. Neither the commander’s children nor the prisoners are allowed into this part of the house – except for Narin, whom they sometimes ask to bring tea and food.

The tall woman with heavy-lidded blue eyes turns out to be the commander’s wife. She speaks Arabic with an American accent, barely looking up when she does so. Her voice is wispy, as if from disuse – except when she yells, which she does often. She instructs them to cook and do the laundry and clean up after the children. The harder they work, the more irritated she seems to become. The stew is too bland, the rice burned, the newly washed clothes still stained. She accuses them of stealing food from the kitchen and padlocks the fridge – and, a few days later, the bread bin, even though she must have smelt the hunger on their breath.

Every night the commander selects a sabaya , forcing her to put on make-up and lingerie. The next morning the same woman returns bruised and broken, without a word on her lips.

On the tenth day, the man sends for Narin.

‘She’s a child,’ says Salma to the militant who brings the message.

‘Seems old enough to me,’ says the man, slowly running his eyes over Narin.

‘She’s a holy child. Tell him to leave her alone.’

‘There’s nothing holy about heathens,’ says the man.

But Salma is adamant. ‘Tell your boss she comes from a line of healers. Her grandmother had the gift. Her great-great-grandmother had the gift. Whoever touches the descendant of a faqra will be cursed.’

‘Nonsense,’ says the man. ‘Don’t waste our time with stupid lies.’

‘You don’t understand,’ Salma insists without missing a beat. ‘This girl’s grandmother needed only to glance at a person once to divine what illness was eating them up. She could find water in dry soil. This is a family of seers.’

He laughs, but, all the same, he leaves without taking Narin and he does not return for her that day.

‘I wish our fate had been like those in Halabja,’ says Salma. ‘Innocents were murdered by that brutal Saddam. They inhaled poison into their lungs, poor souls. What a horrific death it was, but one thing they did not lose was their dignity. If only we had been gassed at Halabja, it’d have been less painful.’