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As Canan, Hana, Avi, and Hassan headed from Damascus to Kobani, most of the traffic headed the opposite way, coming from nearby villages ahead. In fact, opposing traffic was congested, stop-and-go. Car after car they passed was overcrowded with people, often with 8 or 9 to a vehicle. People hung out windows and waved as they passed by. Belongings were secured on top with flimsy rope—beds, mattresses and frames, furniture, bags, suitcases, and the like adorned each vehicle, large and small.
The van was air-conditioned, but the heat was oppressive, so the air didn’t help. Hassan kept the driver’s side window cracked and constantly turned off the air conditioning explaining that the van would otherwise overheat. When he turned down the air, he’d crack the window a bit wider. A blast of hot air hit Canan and Hana in the back seat. Hassan and Avi were chatting in the front seat, but wind noise prevented Canan from hearing anything they said. Canan wondered if they were discussing possible danger zones on this lengthy highway to hell.
Traffic began to slow in their direction, first gradually, just a slight change in speed, and then, almost to a crawl. Hassan slammed his fists against the steering wheel and cursed loudly. Hana glanced, fearfully, to Canan. Canan smiled and tried to offer comfort, though she couldn’t understand Hassan’s sudden burst of anger. As the vehicle slowed, so did the wind. Canan could hear much better, but the vehicle became stifling hot. Sweat began to drip from her forehead and armpits. Hassan turned on the radio to see if he could find out what was going on. The newscaster was discussing a new campaign at the Turkish border and the presence of ISIS fighters along the route to Aleppo.
Hassan picked up his phone and keyed in a number. Traffic picked up a little as he waited for the call to connect. By the time the recipient picked up, the wind drowned out the conversation. Canan again was left to wonder what it was all about.
Canan considered the traffic volume headed back toward Damascus, where her entourage had begun their journey. She tried to scan each vehicle as it went by. Were any of them friends or relatives? Traffic now slowed in both directions, and Canan could make out faces, people of all ages, scared, determined, defiant, happy, tearful, adventurous—such a range of emotions. Years of civil war had caused so many to leave a place that so many had called home for centuries.
So many people, all of their belongings packed into vehicles. Their whole lives had been lived in the north—everything they built was probably there. Why were they leaving now? Was something happening? Where are they going, and where will they stay? How dangerous is this trip? Should we turn back?
Whatever caused the slowdown was over, and traffic resumed to previous speeds. Hana fell asleep in the warm breeze, and Canan felt herself beginning to doze off as well. She must have fallen asleep because she was jolted awake when the van began to slow again. The windows were closed; the air conditioning was working better, and the air was considerably cooler in the van. She noticed that dusk was upon them, and headlights were illuminated on all passing vehicles.
“Traffic?” She leaned forward and questioned Avi. She scanned her surroundings and was surprised to see that they were one of few vehicles on the road. Hassan slowed to almost a stop for no apparent reason. Canan sensed the tension in the front seat.
“Actually, I believe it’s a roadblock,” Avi casually observed. A roadblock in this area was not necessarily something to be concerned about. The Syrian government had random checkpoints all over the country. Checkpoints made sense on the way to the northern border with Turkey, especially considering the conflict. Syrian soldiers would check ID and search vehicles for contraband or weapons.
“We can see the barriers, but we cannot make out the soldiers. That’s why we slowed down,” explained Hassan.
“I don’t understand,” Canan was confused.
“These might not be soldiers.”
Canan instinctively glanced at Hana. “Terrorists?” She shuddered.
“We can’t tell. We will proceed with caution,” Avi warned.
The van creeped forward. Canan realized she was holding her breath and shivering, despite the intense heat. Thanks to Allah, my princess is sleeping!
Hassan could now make out the soldiers at the checkpoint. They were dressed in black from head to toe, faces covered with black hoods and masks. They carried assault rifles. Jeeps and Hummers blocked traffic on both sides of the highway. A couple of the men carried torches, which illuminated their masks. Hassan looked left, right, and into his rearview. There was nowhere to go.
Canan huddled closer to her sleeping child as the vehicle inched slowly toward the checkpoint. Hassan and Avi were constantly leaning toward each other, mumbling quiet words Canan could not hear. Hassan steered the van off onto the shoulder a couple of times, so Avi could check out what was happening in front of them. The good news was that vehicles were being stopped, conversations were had between drivers and checkpoint guards, and vehicles were then allowed to pass through the checkpoint.
Avi turned to the back seat and whispered, “I’m not sure who they are, but no one is being detained for longer than a few minutes. Hopefully, they will let us pass with no problem.”
“May Allah will it so.” Canan prayed.
Hassan cracked the driver’s side window in anticipation of a conversation with the guards. A blast of hot air and tiny sand particles smacked Canan in the face. She glanced at Hana, still asleep, and covered her face with a thin blanket. The wind picked up, and sand was blowing over the highway. Hassan leaned away from the window to avoid it. Canan was immediately uncomfortable, with sweat trickling down her temples.
Avi wrapped his hand wrapped around his pistol in anticipation of a confrontation with the checkpoint guards. He wasn’t sure who these men were or how many there were, but he promised Karim that he would protect his family. Wondering whether the gun would protect them or place them in greater danger, Avi decided to put the weapon in the glove compartment. Slowly, the van approached the checkpoint. Avi counted ten heavily armed men.
One of the guards asked Hassan for identification, and he complied. While the two men engaged in conversation, a second heavily armed guard came around the front of the van and approached the front passenger side window. He demanded Avi’s identification papers, and Avi complied as well. While looking over the papers, both guards asked questions about the passengers and their destination. Both men told the truth. Hassan was a professional driver hired by Avi to take him and the backseat passengers to Kobani. Avi was a family friend, hired by the woman’s husband to escort her and the child to Kobani to visit family.
The guard on the driver’s side leaned his head through the window and addressed Canan. “Identification, please?” he demanded. The man’s breath was hot and foul. He reeked of body odor. Hassan tried to deflect the exchange.
“We have told you. She is going to Kobani to visit family.”
“From where is she visiting? Identity papers, please.” The guard persisted. And there it was—these men were checking the countries of origin for all vehicles going through the checkpoint. Avi was uneasy. These men are not Syrian soldiers.
Canan presented Hana’s and her passports to Avi. Avi, in turn, gave them to the guard. The guard studied the passports, waved others over to the vehicle, and nodded to the guard on the other side.
“Step out of the vehicle,” he ordered.
“Why?” Hassen demanded.
“Because if you don’t, I will kill your friend here,” the guard threatened, pointing an assault rifle at Avi.
“We’re not looking for trouble—we just want to get to Kobani. What is the problem?” Avi pleaded.
“The woman and child are American,” the passenger side guard muttered. He, too, pointed his assault rifle inside the vehicle. “Step out of the van. I will not ask again.”
“What difference does it make that they are from America? Canan is originally from Kobani.”
“Kurd?” The guard addressed Canan. Five men now surrounded the van, pointing assault rifles.
“Yes,” Canan admitted. “Why? Does that matter?” She wondered.
“Kurdish and American? As they say in your country, we have hit the home run!” The guard proclaimed in broken English.
Avi and Hassan were now officially terrified for their passengers. Canan did not comprehend the reason for the guard’s excitement.
“For the last time, step out of the van!” He shouted.
Avi and Hassan glanced at each other and shrugged. Avi turned to Canan and motioned her to exit the vehicle. Hana was now awake and softly whimpering. Canan slowly unlatched her seatbelt and then Hana’s car seat buckle. She hoisted Hana up and out of the car seat and backed out of the van.
Avi and Hassan carefully exited the front seat with their hands raised.
“Do you have weapons?” A guard demanded.
“Pistol in the glove box,” Avi admitted.
The guard reached into the glove box and retrieved the pistol.
“Search them,” a guard, apparently the team leader, ordered one of the men. A quick search of the four occupants and the vehicle revealed no additional weapons. Hana began to screech in fear.
“Shut that child up,” the head guard shouted. “Or I will do so,” he threatened.
Canan began to bounce the child, humming and motioning her to be still. Hana calmed slightly.
The guard turned to the two men. “You have two options: One, we kill all of you right now, or two, you return to your vehicle and continue on your way.”
“Obviously, we choose option two,” Avi quipped.
“Without the woman and the child,” the guard taunted.
“What? Why?” Avi knew the answer.
“Because they are valuable. Someone will pay very good money for them, no?”
“How much do you want?” Hassan demanded. “I’ll see what I can arrange.”
“No, not here, not now. I want their family to know they are hostages,” the guard replied. “More money that way. Here is what we will do.” He paused, thinking as he spoke, motioning Avi and Hassan toward the van.
“You men—get back in your van and continue on your way. The woman and child will stay with us. I do not want to see you on the other side of the highway back to Damascus unless it is with family members who seek to pay ransom. Do you understand? Get to Kobani—tell whoever is waiting for these two—we have the woman and child, and we will return them for one million U.S. dollars.”
“One million dollars? Are you crazy? My family is poor. They have been caught up in a long war, as you well know! They don’t have that kind of money! In fact, they don’t have any money at all,” Canan retorted.
“You will have to figure it out, then, because we will not release you unless we get paid.”
“We cannot leave them alone with you. One of us will stay behind with the woman and child,” Avi proposed.
“No. Both of you will go to Kobani and bring me my money,” the guard insisted. “Now get in the vehicle—be gone!” He pointed his weapon at the two men and clicked the trigger.
Avi turned to Canan. “We have no choice, Canan. We will be back. I will make the arrangements. I promise.”
“I like the sound of that,” the guard approved. “On your way. Be gone, now!”
Avi and Hassan entered the van and drove off. Hassan peered into the rearview mirror as one of the guards pointed a rifle at and escorted Canan and Hana to a waiting Hummer. As the doors closed, the all-terrain vehicle immediately set off in a cloud of dust across the highway and into the desert.
“What do you want to do, Avi?” Hassan eyed his companion.
“Follow them.”
“Follow them? Are you crazy?”
“Do you have a million dollars?”
“Of course not; you know this!”
“Well, neither do I, and neither does Canan’s family. I know this for a fact.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“We are going to follow them and kidnap them back.”
“Uh . . . okay . . . as long as you have a sensible plan,” Hassan quipped.
***
The smell of body odor in the Hummer was nauseating. Hana was screaming and crying—Canan could not calm her. Their captors seemed oblivious to the noise. The terrain was uneven. The car seat had been left behind in the van. Mother and child were brutally bounced around the back seat of the truck. Canan tried to remain calm. From time to time, she glanced out the window, hoping to see a landmark, something, anything, that might identify their approximate location. All she saw was moonlight and desert. She turned her head to look out the back window and observed what she thought was a faint cloud of dust, perhaps a half-mile back. Distances were hard to measure in the desert. Before she could turn back to the front, the butt end of a rifle struck her in the head, causing severe pain, ringing, dizziness, and, finally, total unconsciousness.
When she awoke, she was lying on the hard stone ground. Her hands were tied behind her back. Her body ached. Apparently, she was violently tossed to the hard ground. Her head pounded from the rifle butt, and she was immediately overcome with nausea. She managed to rise to her knees but became so dizzy she almost passed out. Overwhelming nausea induced intense vomit. She crawled away from the spot and noticed it contained a mixture of vomit and blood. Mine?
Where is Hana? What have they done with her? Her maternal instincts suddenly overcame pain, fear, dizziness, and omnipresent nausea. “Hana?” she cried. “Hana!”
“Sleeping beauty has awakened,” a voice mocked from a distance. It was almost pitch black. Canan turned in the direction of the voice but could see nothing.
“Where is my daughter? Bring her to me immediately,” she demanded.
Her invisible captor began to laugh, a chuckle at first, then a loud, obnoxious, taunting guffaw, torturing Canan, somehow knowing that Hana was the most important person in the world. Her captor decided to let her off the hook.
“She is safe, asleep nearby. If you behave, you will see her soon. We need to get you cleaned up. It stinks in here. Take off your clothes.”
“I am handcuffed. I can’t do anything.”
“I forgot.”
Canan heard a faint grunt as the man rose from a reclining position. Slowly, he emerged, first a large shadow, and then the features of a man came into focus, the man who stood at the driver’s side window and demanded they all exit the van.
“What do you want from us?” She insisted.
“What I said earlier—money. If your men come through, you will both be released, unharmed.”
“And I said earlier that it is impossible. We are poor people. We have no money.”
“The United States government has lots of money. When they discover a citizen is being held hostage, they will offer assistance.”
“The United States does not negotiate with terrorists.”
“Terrorists? We are the terrorists?” he mocked. “That is naïve, pretty one. The U.S. always negotiates with terrorists if the photo opportunity at the end is worth the money. In this case, saving an American woman and child will be worth a fortune.”
“Where is my daughter?” Canan changed the subject.
“I told you, she is sleeping. Behave and you’ll see her soon. Do you wish to clean up a bit, change clothes, perhaps?” Canan found it amusing that this smelly, foul man believed she needed to freshen up, but he was correct—she needed a bath and a fresh outfit.
“Yes, but these handcuffs? And I am not removing my clothing in front of you.” She wanted to add “swine” at the end but held her tongue.
“If you behave, you will soon see your child. If you don’t . . .” He floated the ominous threat.
“Please remove the handcuffs, sir. A wash rag, soap, and warm water, a fresh abaya and hijab would be nice.”
“Let me see what I can do. I will be back.” He pulled back the flap of what she now knew was a tent and exited through the opening. He did not return for almost an hour, making Canan quite anxious in his absence. She hated him, to be sure, but, at that moment, he was the only link between her and her precious Hana. Besides, he warned her that misbehavior would result in prolonged separation from her daughter. That threat alone was enough to assure her compliance.
Finally, the flap opened. A woman entered, fully covered, holding a basin of water and some bandages, an abaya and hijab over her arm. Silently, she removed the handcuffs, helped Canan undress and wash, cleaned and dressed her wounds, and helped her into the fresh traditional garb. After her mission was completed, the woman reapplied Canan’s handcuffs. Still, the captive woman felt much better.
“My daughter? Have you seen my daughter?” Canan pleaded. Only the woman’s eyes were visible through her burka. She glared at Canan with soft eyes and shook her head up and down. She turned, pulled back the flap, and surveyed their surroundings. Satisfied they were alone, she lowered the flap and turned back to Canan.
“The little one is fine,” she promised. “I am charged with her care.”
“Where is she? Can you bring her to me?” Canan pleaded.
“I cannot. I must follow commands. If and when I am permitted to do so, I will bring her to you. I will do all I can to assure her safety. I’m sorry this is happening to you, but I fear for my safety and my life, as well.”
“I understand. Please tell Hana you saw me and that I love her.”
“I will do what I am permitted to do, nothing more, nothing less.” With a grim expression, she turned and exited the tent.
After the woman’s departure, Canan walked to the entrance and pressed her ear to the opening. She could hear heavy footsteps stomping around the complex. In the distance, she could barely make out men speaking Arabic, indecipherable voices engaged in conversation. And she heard their loud, haunting, chilling laughter. What is so damned funny?
