The situation in our country is truly not good. There’s no food, no shelter, no safety. Here, some girl or another is being sacrificed every day
Debasree Chakraborti | Kolkata
I can never forget that day, no matter how hard I try. About 50 kilometers from Baghdad was a small village called Samarra, surrounded by rows of yellow mountains, with the blue Afrin River flowing through it. Our village, Samarra, was right on the riverbank, lined with almond trees. My father worked in a toy factory, and my mother was busy all day managing our five siblings and the household. What a happy life it was! We three sisters and two brothers would go to school in the mornings. The school was nestled inside a pomegranate orchard, clinging to the side of a mountain. Father had bought us sky-blue dupattas from the market, and we three sisters would cover our heads with them, wearing yellow kurta pajamas stitched by Sultan the tailor, while our brothers wore white Pathani kurta pajamas. What happy days they were! White pigeons flew in the sky amidst the sky-blue. Once, my younger brother really wanted to eat a pigeon. Father took him to the market and asked him to choose one. He picked a healthy white pigeon. Father bought it for him, then took the pigeon in his hand and released it into the air. My brother asked, “What did you do, Father?” Father replied, “I sent him to where he belongs, son. Look how beautiful he looks!” This was our father – he would send his daughters to school veiled, and then, like a child, he would release pigeons into the sky. Father was a very skilled man. He knew Farsi, Arabic, and all languages. The Quran Sharif was committed to his memory. With a complexion like pure gold and the appearance of an angel, the villagers respected him greatly. Oh, look, while talking, I forgot to introduce myself! I am Nasifa, an unfortunate woman from Iraq. Today, I’ve picked up my pen to tell you a few things. Even amidst such happiness, I call myself unfortunate. Why? There’s a reason, and I’ve picked up my pen today to tell you everything. What was I saying? Yes, I was talking about my village. During Eid, when the moon rose in the mountain crevices, its light would fall on the mountains, making them look like golden mountains with a golden moon. The whole village would be immersed in Eid joy. The aroma of biryani, gosht (meat), semai (vermicelli), and firni (rice pudding) would fill the air. We would celebrate with dancing and singing. It was on one such night that Uncle Wasim called Father away. Some new people had arrived in the village, talking about jihad. After Father left, I asked Mother, “Mother, what is jihad?” I saw a shadow of an eclipse on Mother’s face. She stood by the window, staring outside with a mournful expression, her gaze terrifying. I didn’t understand anything. That night, Father returned very late. I heard Mother and Father talking at night, but their voices were very indistinct. Only one phrase reached my ears: “The situation isn’t good; we need to move the children away.” Mother kept asking, “Where will we send them? We have no relatives anywhere. It’s better if we all stay here together.” From then on, meetings happened every night. Even though Father didn’t want to go, he was forced to attend the meetings. Uncle Wasim would call Father, saying they had machine guns and would riddle him with bullets if he didn’t go.
That day, the sun rose in the sky like a golden platter. We three sisters were buying glass bangles from Jumur Sheikh; the bangles shimmered in the sunlight. My two brothers were flying kites with other boys. The yellow, red, and green kites looked so beautiful against the blue sky. Just then, some trucks rumbled into the village with a terrifying sound, shaking the ground. At first, we didn’t quite understand, thinking it might be an earthquake. Later, we realized what was happening. People carrying guns started getting out of the trucks and entering the village. At first, we didn’t understand what was going on. We were simple village folk; what did we know of such things? Had we ever seen such things before?
These people told us that from today, schools would be closed, and there would be no more studying. Only Sharia law would be enforced here. We had to go to the mosque on time and pray, or our throats would be slit. Uncle Yakub’s elder son, Omar Bhai, roared, “Where did the Prophet say that throats would be slit for not praying? Where did he say that we couldn’t study? Show me!” No sooner had he said this than a man came and slit Omar Bhai’s throat in front of all of us. Omar Bhai was still alive; they ripped open his chest and pulled out his heart. In front of our eyes, Omar Bhai’s heart bled, turning the soil of Samarra, just 50 kilometers from Baghdad, red. Such a huge incident happened, but it wasn’t printed in any newspaper, nor was it shown on any TV channel. Forget about soldiers coming from the capital, not even a single policeman arrived.
Father has become very quiet these days; that cheerfulness is gone from everyone. Oh, one can’t even look at Uncle Yakub’s face. The grief of losing such a young, strong son is no small matter. Another moonlit night arrived. A moon like a white stone platter rose over the white stone mosque in our village. Tonight, I am alone at home. Father has taken Mother and my siblings somewhere, leaving me behind, without saying anything. I am alone, but honestly, I still remember I wasn’t afraid, not at all.
Suddenly, I heard the door open. I went to the outer room, thinking Father and the others had returned. But no, it wasn’t my father; it was another man. The man pounced on me. I said, “You are committing a sin; let me go.” The man said, “No, I am not committing any sin; this will earn me Jannat.” The man started muttering something, remembering Allah, and began torturing me. I said, “Allah will send you to hell.” He didn’t listen. When my mother and father arrived, the man left. I asked Mother, “Why did you let this terrible thing happen to me?” Mother said, like a stone, “If they hadn’t, they wouldn’t have let any of us live.” This way, day after day, they continued to torture me. Later, I learned this was called sex jihad.
When the torture became unbearable, one night, Father took us and set sail on the Afrin, floating towards an uncertain destination. I cannot describe the terrible suffering we endured. Just water and water. I grew to hate the sight of water. Hunger and thirst had completely vanished from my body. It was astonishing to see how Father and Mother had turned to stone; there were no words on their lips. We, as children, didn’t understand much then, but now I realize that after such devastation, no one can speak.
After almost 7 to 8 days in the water, we reached a big city. Later, I realized bit by bit that the city’s name was Damascus. My father is a skilled man; he knows two or three languages. Father had read in the newspaper that there were Iraqi camps in Syria. Asking around, we reached the refugee camp. We saw that many Iraqi families had already left their country and come here before us. We started living with them. Gradually, more families began to arrive. Many families from our village also came here. We learned from them that our village girls had been taken as sex slaves, and some boys, fearing for their lives, had joined them.
The first few days were good. There was only one kitchen where everyone’s food was cooked together. The boys played together, and the girls chatted together. After a long time, we got back those village days. We started going to school again. Things were going well. Even though the days were good, there was no safety in the camp at night. News started coming in about girls being abducted. We, too, were foolish; we didn’t take the matter seriously. One night, my 10-year-old younger sister had to relieve herself. She couldn’t hold it in any longer. What could she do? She was just a child. Mother took her outside. The whole night passed, and they didn’t return. Hamid Bhai apparently saw some people covering Mother and my sister’s mouths and taking them away. A week later, a wounded Mother returned, but we found no trace of my sister. Mother said that young girls like my sister were taken to garden houses at night to satisfy the desires of old sheikhs.
Father would search every night to find out where my sister could be. While searching this way, Father also went missing one day. He never returned. When we came here, another person came with us. At first, we didn’t realize their existence. Later, when we did, it was too late. Mother didn’t try to get rid of them because abortion is a sin in Islam. Ten months after returning from the village, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. Mother named her Noor. Her beauty brought moonlight into our camp. My younger sister never returned, and seeing my middle sister slowly growing up, our worries truly had no end. Finally, she was married off to an Arab sheikh. Although the sheikh was much older, he was quite well-off, and my sister is happy. Sheikhs come to Syrian camps to find wives because wives can be found cheaper here than in other countries. They even marry women with children. My father, both sisters, everyone, one by one, bid farewell. Only my mother, my two brothers, and my Noor were left. Mother’s health hasn’t been good lately; she gets a fever in the evenings, and coughs up blood. Mother doesn’t hold Noor these days, telling me to keep her away. The money we got from the Sheikh through my middle sister is almost gone. Most of it was spent on Mother’s treatment. One evening, during the Maghrib prayer, I saw Mother collapse. She never opened her eyes again. We became orphans.
Every family here has some story or another. If I were to tell all those stories, I would never finish, but your tears would run dry. Noor is growing; she’s six months old now, and even breast milk doesn’t fill her stomach. And how can there be milk if she doesn’t eat enough, right? Noor’s crying increased day by day. My brothers are also too young; they haven’t reached an age to earn yet. One day, I had to go out onto the streets in search of work.
I couldn’t find any work. Maybe if I had an education, I would have found something, but I never even finished school, so how could I find work? Some people offered me my body. They said I was beautiful, and if I sold my body, they would give me a lot of money. I refused at first. Honestly, I did. But faced with Noor’s cries and my brothers’ hungry faces, maintaining my “purity” felt truly selfish. I tell you truthfully, I was forced to enter that line of work.
The situation in our country is truly not good. There’s no food, no shelter, no safety. Here, some girl or another is being sacrificed every day. What can be done? We are so helpless against a group of armed men. People all over the world watch silently. What can we do? My father was a pious Muslim, but today this is our fate. Oh Allah, can you hear? Can you see our condition? Or are you, too, a captive in the hands of these gunmen these days?
Read: Trafficking – A Short Story from Kolkata
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Debasree Chakraborti is a renowned novel writer of Bengali language. Based in Kolkata, West Bengal, India, she has done Master’s in Modern History from the Kolkata University, and authored some thirty books, mostly the novels, with historical perspective and themes. Her novel is ‘Maharaja Dahir’ that covers the history of Sindh from 662, the year of first attack on Sindh by the Arab armies till date, was published last year and translated by Nasir Aijaz into Sindhi language.
