The Beekeeper Page 5

  They joined the hundreds of families who had already arrived — for ten days they were besieged along with the people of Kocho. But then they all fell into the clutches of Daesh. Hasan was separated from his family because “men shouldn’t ride on the same bus as women.” They separated Umm Hasan from Zuhour and the two girls because “elderly people need special treatment in a cool place.” The Daeshis were respectful at first, saying things like “We aren’t going to hurt you, we’re just helping you get out of here.” But everything was set for them to execute their plan. They’d brought large buses, covering the windows with curtains. Even the houses where they took people had been prepared with Daesh waiting inside. The buses headed toward the village of Sawlakh, where they unloaded the women first, detaining them in a large warehouse; the women heard the nonstop sound of gunshots being fired at men who had just been shoved into pits dug for precisely this purpose. After they killed all the men, they took the older women, including Umm Hasan, and threw them into a fishpond. Then they shoveled dirt on top. They buried them alive.

  The two little girls clung to their mother in fear, alongside other dazed mothers and daughters. Then they were transported to a prison in Talafar. Two months later, in the same prison, Zuhour felt labor pains — it was time to give birth. Fortunately, one of the captives was a midwife so she was able to help her through a traditional birth. The newborn cried the same way all newborns cry when they are torn from that safe place inside their mothers and brought out into the big scary world. Zuhour was trying to nurse her newborn child when a Daeshi came over and forced them into buses once again. They had sold all of them (three hundred families) to the sabaya market in Raqqa, where they would be auctioned off to Daesh fighters. Zuhour stood in the market, holding her son, with her two daughters standing by her side. A gigantic man, as hideous as a monster, came up to her; she was terrified by the sight of him, afraid he was actually going to buy her. She flailed desperately to mess up her hair and her appearance as much as possible so he wouldn’t be attracted to her. Just then another Daeshi, smaller and younger, approached her. She whispered that he should take her. And that’s exactly what he did.

  Abu Qutayba took them home with him and introduced them to his two wives. All three of them spoke with a Damascus accent. Zuhour was able to guess what they meant. Even though she was exhausted from having just given birth, on top of everything else that had happened to her, Zuhour was forced to wait on them. She would do everything she could for the sake of her children. After two months, she was unable to withstand it anymore and broke down from exhaustion. When she woke up she was still very dizzy, so she sat down and didn’t do any of her chores. When Abu Qutayba returned home, his two wives complained that Zuhour was negligent, that she hadn’t done any work at all — so he beat her. Zuhour didn’t cry. She maintained her composure so her daughters wouldn’t be upset, but her two little girls started crying anyway. As the two wives’ complaints about her increased, the beatings continued almost every day, until Abu Qutayba decided to sell her. As the new buyer Abu Sayyaf started haggling over her price, Zuhour hoped that he might be better than Abu Qutayba, that he wouldn’t hit her, at least not in front of her children. Zuhour’s hope came true in terms of the beatings, but there was a new problem: Abu Sayyaf never fed her. Zuhour would boil bread crumbs in water to make soup for her children. After a month and a half of severe malnourishment, her little boy nearly died of hunger. Zuhour had no choice but to try and escape. She realized that this would be taking a huge risk. She’d heard about entire families who were killed when they tried and failed to get away — roving patrols would bring them back, and these members of the movement had no mercy in their hearts. But because of her baby’s screams and the hunger and emaciation of her two daughters, Zuhour wrapped herself in her black abaya and fled with her children the first chance she got. Walking down the street, she noticed a house with an open door. Inside, there was a large sewing machine with a woman standing behind it and five other women sitting nearby. Zuhour entered and sat down with her children. Thinking she was another customer, the seamstress asked her what she could do for her, but Zuhour was too scared to ask for help. What if one of the women ratted on her? “I’m at the end of the line,” she told the seamstress. And so the woman took the fabric and the measurements from the other women first.

  Just then an armed patrol burst into the room. The women adjusted the abayas covering their heads. Zuhour did the same, as her two girls cowered under her arms. The man excused himself and walked out, muttering, “I beg God’s forgiveness.”

  After about an hour, the seamstress finished her work, and took the payment from the other five women. Only Zuhour and her children were left. The seamstress looked at her, waiting to take her order. Zuhour drew closer, and said, “I’m an Iraqi and I’m at your mercy. I ran away from Daesh. I beg of you, please, give me shelter. That man who was just here is looking for me. If they find me they’ll kill me and my children.”

  The seamstress replied: “Come inside.” She opened the door that led from the workshop into the house, then returned to her sewing machine. Before she had finished working on the first dress, the patrol came back and asked, “Where are all the women who were just here?”

  “They all left,” she replied. “Here’s the fabric the six of them left with me.”

  The seamstress closed up her workshop, which was the front room of her house, separated from the rest of the house by a door and a small hallway. She went inside to check on Zuhour and her children — they were frozen in place on the couch, motionless. She sat down across from them. She told Zuhour, “I would like to help you, but the trouble is that my father is a member of Daesh.”

  The seamstress remained silent. Zuhour didn’t know what to say. Surely she didn’t want to wait around for her father to come home. The seamstress clarified: “My father isn’t here every day. Ever since he joined Daesh he goes away for three weeks at a time, comes home for just three days, then he goes away again, and so on. You have about a week until my father comes back again. There are two options: either you leave within the week, or you hide out in the storeroom and don’t make a sound while you’re in there. That room is for my sewing machines. It’s my own private space. My father never goes in there.”

  Zuhour felt profound gratitude toward this young woman who offered to accommodate them despite the danger it presented. Before Zuhour could respond, her son started crying. The seamstress said, “I’m worried the little boy will start crying when my father gets here.”

  “He’s really a very quiet child. He sleeps all the time. But he cries when he’s hungry. They didn’t bring him any milk when we were with Daesh,” she said.

  “Let me go buy some milk,” the seamstress replied. “Don’t open the door, not even if someone knocks. I’ve got a key. I won’t knock. Here’s the refrigerator. Eat whatever you feel like. I’ll be back in a little while.”

  Zuhour made some cheese sandwiches, which were particularly good because they were all so hungry. “My stomach was hurting, but I feel better now,” the older girl said.

  The seamstress came back with packages of powdered milk and a bottle of liquid milk. Zuhour fed her baby, gazing at his content face.

  The seamstress introduced herself: “My name’s Reem. What’s yours?”

  “I’m Zuhour. My little girl’s name is Reem as well.”

  “May God protect you. How old is the baby? What’s his name?”

  “Four months. He doesn’t have a name yet. He was born in prison.”

  “Why were you in prison?”

  “I don’t know. Daesh attacked us. They separated us from our husbands, thinking we were the spoils of war.”

  Zuhour shared all the details of her story with Reem. When she started crying, Reem went over to pat her on the shoulder.

  “I’ll never forget the kindness you’ve shown us here,” Zuhour said, “I pray to God that someday I’ll
be able to return the favor.”

  “Don’t mention it. I’m not going to let you out of my sight, but I am worried about my father,” Reem said, as she gestured for Zuhour to follow her. She showed her the room where they would sleep. Before her father got back, they would pack it with cardboard boxes and supplies, hiding themselves inside so he wouldn’t be able to see them. “He never comes into this room. He knows that it’s for storing sewing supplies. But we should prepare for the worst,” Reem insisted. They seemed tired so she added, “Sleep well.”

  Zuhour closed the door behind her and hugged her children. The older girl asked, “This isn’t Daesh’s house, right?”

  “No, this isn’t Daesh’s house. It’s Auntie Reem’s house,” Zuhour said, “but sometimes Daesh comes here. And when they do we have to hide. We can’t make a sound.”

  Zuhour closed her eyes, trying to think of who she could telephone for help — who among them is still alive? Zuhour couldn’t remember a single phone number. All those numbers were saved in her cell phone, which they’d taken from her, along with her gold bracelet. She never imagined that she would need to know the numbers by heart. Zuhour couldn’t sleep, and the quiet in that house gave her space to think about everything that had happened. Her two daughters had no idea that their father was dead; they thought he was still at home, waiting to see them again. The two girls were very close to him. What would she tell them if they went home and didn’t find Hasan there?

  The next morning Zuhour slowly cracked open the door, peering through to see if anyone was there. Emerging from their room, she heard the sound of Reem’s sewing machine. Zuhour sat down in the living room, which was separated from the sewing room by a small hallway. A little later Reem came in, as if she’d felt Zuhour’s presence: “I waited so that we could have breakfast together,” she said. “Did you sleep well?”

  “We haven’t slept that soundly for a long time,” Zuhour said.

  After breakfast Reem made some Arabic coffee, which the two women drank together. Then the doorbell rang. Zuhour was afraid it might be the patrol returning again. She didn’t know what to do. Reem waved for her and the children to go into their room and hide and to lock the door behind them. Twenty minutes later Reem came back: “It’s me. Don’t be afraid. Open the door. It was a new customer bringing me a bunch of fabric to sew. I just wanted to let you know that everything’s fine. I’m going to do some sewing. I’ll close the living room door behind me.”

  When Reem came back from the workshop after four hours of cutting and sewing she discovered that her house was cleaner than usual. Reem thanked Zuhour for that, saying, “You didn’t have to bother.”

  Five days later, Reem was talking on the telephone, and when she hung up, she told Zuhour, “Listen. My father’s on his way. He’ll be here in about an hour. Come into the storeroom, lock the door from inside. We’ll have to put some food and milk inside first. You might not be able to come out for three days. Let’s pray to God the baby doesn’t start crying.”

  In their hiding place, Zuhour repeated to her daughters that they were not to make a sound. It was so quiet that the two girls fell asleep right where they were. The next day Reem came in and said, “My father went shopping. He’ll be back in a little while. You can use the toilet, but hurry.”

  They all went to the bathroom, then returned and hid behind the boxes that Reem had stacked on top of the supplies, so that they couldn’t be seen even if her father went in for some reason.

  Those three days passed without incident. Her father left, and wasn’t going to return for another three weeks. Zuhour and her children went back into the living room as Reem had invited them to do, and they were able to get back to feeling normal.

  The same thing happened three times. Each time he would stay for three days, then leave for three weeks, as if he were on a fixed military rotation. But the third time the baby nearly suffocated when he was about to start crying and Zuhour tried to prevent him by placing her hand over his mouth. He wasn’t hungry. He’d just had his milk. But the diapers and the small cloths in the house had all run out, and the baby was filthy. Zuhour tried to soothe him by taking off her stockings and using them to clean him. After sixty-nine days of Reem’s hospitality, Zuhour asked, “Do you have a telephone book for Kurdistan? What if we just call some numbers at random? Maybe we’ll get ahold of someone who knows me. Who knows?”

  Reem dialed a number from the phone book at random. Someone in Sulaymaniyah Province picked up.

  “Hello, good evening.”

  “Good evening.”

  “There’s a woman here with me from Sinjar. She escaped from Daesh and now I’m letting her stay in my house. Would you please search for her family’s number and then call me back? Here’s my number.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Zuhour’s uncle called Reem and said, “Someone is going to call you right away. He’ll tell you what to do.”

  Reem was surprised that they’d called back so quickly. Zuhour wasn’t.

  Zuhour’s uncle was in the Arbat refugee camp in Sulaymaniyah. As soon as he heard about Zuhour, he contacted me and gave me her number. When I called, Reem answered, and then handed the phone to Zuhour. She explained how much Reem had helped her, how she had shown her the kindest hospitality for two and a half months. She passed the phone to Reem again; I thanked her and said: “I’m going to send a woman the day after tomorrow at eight in the morning. She’ll pretend to be a customer. If she tells you she’s with Abdullah it means that Zuhour should go with her. Then she’ll take her to a taxi that will be waiting for her. I’d like to send you some money as a token of my appreciation.”

  “Thank you but I don’t want anything, just her safety,” Reem replied.

  Reem felt some sadness about the fact that Zuhour would be leaving soon — she had become accustomed to eating with her and to talking about whatever was on her mind. She’d learned about Iraqi cuisine from Zuhour, and was fond of her children — they called her “Auntie.” Zuhour and her children had added a new flavor to her life. Her days were usually measured by the stitches of her sewing machine. On more than one occasion her father had indicated that he wanted to marry her to one of the “heroic” mujahideen. But how would the mujahid treat her if that actually happened? Like a piece of furniture that could break at any moment, the same way her mother had been broken? As far as her father was concerned, Daesh was correct — the world wasn’t going to be fixed unless it proceeded according to the path of the Islamic State. He had gone off to fight with them, to enslave female captives like Zuhour.

  The female representative showed up right on time. Saying goodbye to Reem with a hug, Zuhour and the children left. “Let me know that you arrive safely, Zuhour,” Reem said.

  The driver took them to the village of Mas’ade, to one of our safe houses, where they spent a couple of days. From there to Kobani and then to the Iraqi border. I joined them at Arbat Camp because it was an opportunity for me to see Zuhour’s uncle, who is a friend of mine. In this camp you can hear all kinds of dialects and languages: Iraqi, Syrian, Kurdish, Turkish, Assyrian, Persian. There are people from many different regions who’ve taken shelter here: Shabak and Christians who fled from Mosul; Syrians who fled from Kobani; Yazidis who fled from Sinjar; Muslims who fled across the Tigris from al-Anbar on small skiffs. Some children had drowned in the river.

  Zuhour told me a great deal about Reem and her generosity, which is why we sent her a gift even before receiving the financial payment from the Office of Kidnapped Affairs. The same woman who’d gone to Reem’s house to take Zuhour to the driver went back a second time and placed an envelope in her hand with the word “Thanks” written on it, and a thousand dollars inside. Reem called Zuhour, stunned by the gift. “You should have kept the money for yourself and for your children. You might need it,” she said.