Northern Iraq, near Mosul: Hassan al-Hassan’s Jihad Nation encampment
“Do you know your verses, boy?” the gangly jihadist with one eye yelled. “Do you know the Koran?”
The small boy in the crewcut trembled before him, standing in line with two others, including Besma’s brother, Havi.
Although it was late morning, a hard grayness obscured the mottled sky. The wind blew sharp, swirls of dirt dancing across the camp.
“No, sir,” the boy muttered, one bare foot crossed over the other as he looked down at the ground.
“What good is he?” One-eye shouted. He turned to the group of jihadists, most of them mulling around the girls not yet selected, of which Besma was one: “Another godless Yazidi!”
One of the two Al-Khansa women came marching over, her automatic rifle slung over her shoulder, and led the little boy away, taking him to the girls that seemed destined for the sex slave market. Some men were flirting with them, on their cell phones, laying claims, making deals.
Two boys left. All stood to attention, trembling. Poor Havi. Besma could see him trying to stay brave, his eyes shut, his lips moving silently. Dadi said he was a man, but that was to flatter him, make him strong. And with his curly black hair, long eyelashes and blue eyes, he looked so vulnerable. Just six years old. A baby! Besma hoped he was reciting the verses to himself that they had learned together.
She’d heard stories of the other Yazidi girls, some not even ten years old, being raped by a dozen men before they were sold or ransomed back to their fathers.
She prayed silently to Melek Taus, the Peacock Angel, and begged for a quick death if that was to be her fate, and to save her little brother. If Havi had to become a Muslim, she asked that he would become a good man, not a killer. But she knew what Jihad Nation did with converts. Once they were brainwashed, they became suicide bombers.
One-eye approached the next boy, a lad with a big nose and crooked stare.
“Abbas!” one jihadi shouted at One-eye. “He looks just like you! Have you been dipping your wick in a Yazidi honeypot?”
Laughter all around. One-eye grimaced at first, then broke into a grin. “I will be soon enough!”
More laughter.
“Enough of that kind of talk!”
Everybody turned.
Hassan al-Hassan had emerged from the building, and stood, legs apart, hands on his hips. He wore his black outfit and dirty white sneakers, his uncombed hair and thick beard fluttering in the breeze.
It was difficult to tell what the two Al-Khansa women thought but their stoic lack of movement implied that they agreed with him.
One-eye returned to the boy. “Do you know your verses?” he yelled. “Do you know the Koran?”
The boy stood to attention, arms straight by his side. Then he spoke in an awkward stammer:
“And who . . . thinks . . . of what has been told . . .”
His face erupted with tears.
“Disgraceful!” One-eye struck the boy with his fist, driving him to the ground. “You insult the noble Koran with your clumsy attempt!” The other woman in black was waiting. She led the boy to the group of unwanted.
“We’ll have to dig a bigger grave!” One-eye said, moving over to Havi. Besma’s eyes fluttered with fear. She felt as if she might faint. She fought it, for Havi’s sake.
“Do you know your verses, boy?” One-eye bellowed at Havi.
Quaking, eyes clamped shut, arms strapped to his side with fright, Havi lifted up his shaking head, then announced in a clear voice, “In The Name of Allah, The Beneficent, The Merciful:”
He tilted his head back and sang:
“Seest thou one who denies the Judgment?
Then such is the man who repulses the orphan,
And encourages not the feeding of the indigent.
So woe to the worshippers
Who are neglectful of their prayers . . .”
Besma found herself silently whispering the words along with her brother, relief flowing like water as he executed the verse flawlessly. When Havi was done, silence loomed around the courtyard for a moment, punctuated by the morning wind blowing up clouds of dust. The jihadists had all stopped to watch and listen.
“Good job,” One-eye said to Havi. “Well recited.”
Hassan al-Hassan strode over to the line of boys. One-eye scurried out of his way.
“Excellent!” Hassan said to Havi. “The small kindnesses—a perfect surah for a young man. Reminding us that it is not enough just to be a good Muslim, but that we must take heed of those less fortunate than ourselves. Beautifully recited. By a heathen no less. God is great!”
Small fists clenched by his side, Havi stared down at the ground. He still wore the big flip-flops that Besma had given him.
“God is great, sir,” he said quietly.
Hassan squatted down in front of Havi. “Look at me, boy.”
Besma watched her little brother lift his head and open his eyes, blinking rapidly.
“Don’t be afraid, boy. What is your name?”
“Havi, sir.”
“Who taught you that surah, boy? The one you sang so well?”
“My sister, sir.” Havi pointed at Besma, standing with those destined for slavery or ransom.
Hassan stood up, turned, looked at Besma. “Did she now? And what is your sister’s name?”
“Besma, sir. She taught me other verses as well. Would you like to hear them?”
“Later, perhaps.” Hassan spoke to one of the women in black. “Clean these two up.” He indicated Havi and Besma. “Put her in something that covers her shamefulness.” Besma still wore her shorts. “This boy will be perfect for training. Bring them both to my quarters.”
Besma’s young body shook as it released a torrent of tension. The women in black gathered her and Havi together and led them away.
They were taken to an open garage on the other side of the compound where a cement sink occupied the far corner. The two of them disrobed and washed in water from buckets. They were given used clothes to wear, a small robe and sandals for Havi and a dirty burqa for herself that smelled of livestock. The sound of a car engine grinding caught Besma’s guarded attention. She peered over to the camp entrance as she pulled the garment over her head. A sedan was bouncing into camp, its chassis squealing, causing a fair amount of commotion. The taller of the two Al-Kahnsa women, who had big feet, stepped out beyond the roof of the parking structure to watch.
As Besma bathed her little brother, she craned her neck to see. An old Mercedes with dented fenders pulled up in front of the main building in a spin of dust. A jihadi with an AK-47 climbed out of the front, opened the rear door and motioned for the occupants to get out.
There were two middle-aged Arabs, a man and a woman. He was portly, clean shaven, wearing gold framed glasses which glinted in the sun, his short sleeve shirt tucked into gray slacks. The woman wore a fine light burqa, made of silk judging by the way it hung on her. The man steadied the woman, who was clearly petrified. He himself was shaking.
Hassan al-Hassan went over to them, speaking to the couple in what appeared to be firm tones. Besma could not hear what they were saying but they were clearly being admonished. The woman appeared to faint; the man caught her. They were taken around the back of the main building by the man with the Kalashnikov, the husband holding his wife’s trembling arm.
The tall woman in black returned to the sinks.
“Who is that?” the other woman, who had been watching Besma and Havi, said.
“Kafka’s parents,” the taller woman whispered. “Hassan al-Hassan must have seized them. To ensure his return.”
Both women shook their heads ominously, the hoods of their burqas moving to and fro.
“Are they to live?” the shorter woman said.
The tall woman shrugged. “Who knows?”
“Is Kafka still on the run?” the shorter woman said.
“Still hiding in Paris, I gather.”
The short woman lowered her voice to a whisper. “They say he fell for a Yazidi woman there who tried to lure him away.”
“No!”
The shorter woman shook her head and clucked. Then she noticed Besma listening.
“You there! Stop dawdling! Hurry up.”
Besma resumed rubbing Havi’s hair dry with a towel. For the moment, the two of them were still alive. That seemed to be the best one could hope for in this life.