On June 29, 2014, the terrorist organization IS (Islamic State)—formerly known as ISIS (Islamic State of Iraq and Syria)—proclaimed the birth of a caliphate in the occupied territories of Iraq and Syria. The Islamic State was defeated in the Battle of Mosul, Iraq (2016-2017).
The interviews, conducted in May 2019, share the stories of Syrian women who lived under the ISIS caliphate and now live in Gaziantep, Turkey.
Interview 1: woman, 34 years old
As soon as we turn the corner, J. and I look into each other’s eyes and take deep breaths.
J. can’t hold back her tears. I want to cry, too, but I have a lump in my throat, and I just focus on breathing. I feel as if I’ve been holding my breath for the entire interview, suspended in a surreal dimension. But now I’m walking down the street, staring at the tips of my worn-out shoes, processing what I just heard as the 4:00 p.m. prayer rises from the minaret tower to our right.
A., J., the Syrian woman, and I sat on small stools in a coffee shop and ordered three çay. A. has a reassuring smile, and as soon as she opens her brown notebook, the woman, wrapped in her black hijab, begins to tell us her story.
“During the ISIS occupation, we women couldn’t enter coffee shops, we had to cover every part of our body, even our eyes, and dress completely in black; no other color was allowed. If one of these rules was broken, they would drag us into a house and whip us on the back.
One day, I was walking down the street with my husband, but I hadn’t totally covered my face. Soldiers kidnapped me and took me inside a building. They whipped me for a week. I still have the marks on my back. If it hadn’t been for my husband, I would have died. He saved me by paying the soldiers. So they dressed me entirely in black, took the money, and I was able to go home.
When women couldn’t pay the 50 Syrian liras to buy a burqa, they were beaten. My neighbor told me that a woman’s daughter who didn’t have money to buy one was raped by six men and then killed. She was 14 years old.
Sometimes the soldiers wanted to get married, so they would go to their fathers to ask for their daughter’s hand, as if there were no war, as if everything were normal. If the father refused, there were three options: they were either forced to marry, killed, or, if they were lucky, let go. My eldest daughter was already married at that time, but the other two were not. After my husband died, I forced them to get married. They no longer had a father, and I didn’t know how to protect myself and them.
The day my husband died, seven years ago, it was 9 in the morning, and like every day, helicopters flew over us while bombs fell from the sky like rain. So many children died that day…
My husband was a doctor, and he ran everywhere to help the wounded. He saved us. A bomb was about to fall near us, but he started shouting, ‘Run! Run!’ So I started running down the street with my daughters and my friends, but my husband… he didn’t make it. His head was split in half, and his intestines were coming out of his torn stomach. My youngest daughter and I were hit in the feet by some shrapnel. She says she remembers everything, even though she was only 2 years old, and even today, when she hears a loud noise, she jumps in fear. When we saw him in that condition, we were all so traumatized, but after a while, I forced myself to be strong for my daughters, and we moved to Turkey.
But life is not easy; I can’t work. My youngest daughter and I are staying at an association that provides us with food and 140 liras a month (about 23 euros). We live in a building with other people, we share the bathroom and the kitchen, and we have a curfew to respect. I’m doing everything I can to earn money and see my daughters again, to make it so that the one living in Lebanon can come here to Turkey. As for the one who lives in Syria… her husband doesn’t want to leave the country. She tells me that a bomb falls near where they live once or twice a month, and I can’t sleep anymore until I hear my daughter’s voice.
“All I want is to reunite my family, nothing more.”
This woman doesn’t cry, doesn’t break down, doesn’t shatter. And I can’t understand if she no longer has tears to shed or if I am in front of a titanic force, an unheard-of dignity. My sadness seems so inappropriate that I force myself to hold back the tears that don’t belong to me and to swallow the bitterness of a reality that I can’t change. I have nothing to offer in return to this human being but my deepest respect. We say goodbye with a long hug, and all I can manage to say is just:
Inshallah (if God wills).
Which contains all my most sincere wishes:
If God wills, you will be able to reunite your family.
If God wills, everything will be for the best.
If God wills, you will be happy.