Eski Mosul, Iraq: When Daesh fighters burst into the Iraqi village of Eski Mosul, Shaikh Abdullah Ebrahim knew his wife was in trouble.
Buthaina Ebrahim was an outspoken human rights advocate who had once run for the provincial council in Mosul. The Daesh fighters demanded she apply for a “repentance card.” Under the rule of the terrorist group, all former police officers, soldiers and people whose activities are deemed “heretical” must sign the card and carry it with them at all times.
“She said she’d never stoop so low,” her husband said.
Buthaina was an outlier in her defiance of Daesh. It would cost her dearly.
The “caliphate,” declared a year ago, demands obedience. Untold numbers have been killed because they were deemed dangerous to Daesh, or insufficiently pious; five to eight million endure a reign that has swiftly turned their world upside down, extending its control into every corner of life to enforce its own radical interpretation of Sharia.
Daesh proclaimed its self-described caliphate on June 29, 2014, urging Muslims worldwide to pledge allegiance to its Iraqi leader Abu Bakr Al Baghdadi, renamed Caliph Ebrahim.
Vowing to make “the West and the East... submit”, it now controls some 300,000 square kilometres, terrifying residents with a gruesome brutality that analysts say has become central to its existence.
Daesh’s “Islamic State” is a place where men douse themselves with cologne to hide the odour of forbidden cigarettes, where taxi drivers or motorists usually play the Daesh official radio station, since music can get a driver ten lashes, where women must be entirely covered, in black, and in flat-soled shoes, where shops must close during Muslim prayers, and everyone found outdoors must attend.
‘Despaired’
There is no safe way out. People vanish — their disappearance sometimes explained by an uninformative death certificate, or worse, a video of their beheading.
“People hate them, but they’ve despaired, and they don’t see anyone supporting them if they rise up,” said a 28-year-old Syrian who asked to be identified only by the nickname he uses in political activism, Adnan, in order to protect his family, which still lives under Daesh rule. “People feel that nobody is with them.”
Daesh’s “caliphate” has evolved into an entrenched pseudo-state, based on a bureaucracy of terror. Interviewees provided documents produced by the Daesh ruling machine — repentance cards, lists inventorying weapons held by local fighters, leaflets detailing rules of women’s dress, detailed forms for applying for permission to travel outside Daesh territory. All emblazoned with the Daesh black banner and logo.
Adnan described the transformation that the Syrian city of Raqqa underwent after Daesh took it over in January 2014. At the time, he fled, but after a few months of missing his family, the 28-year-old returned to see if he could endure life under the extremists. He lasted for almost a year in the city, now the Daesh de facto capital.
The once colourful, cosmopolitan Syrian provincial capital has been transformed, he said. Now, women covered head to toe in black scurried quickly to markets before rushing home. Families often didn’t leave home to avoid any contact with the “Hisba” committees, the dreaded enforcers of the innumerable Daesh regulations.
Daesh fighters turned a soccer stadium into a prison and interrogation centre, known as “Point 11.” The city’s central square was referred to by residents as “Jaheem” Square — Hell Square, an execution site where Adnan said he saw the corpses of three men left dangling for days as a warning.
Armed members of the Hisba patrolled the streets, cruising in SUVs and wearing Afghan-style baggy pants and long shirts. They sniffed people for the odour of cigarettes, and chastised women they considered improperly covered or men who wore Western clothes or hairstyles. Adnan said he once was dealt ten lashes for playing music in his car.
In this world, the outspoken Buthaina was clearly in danger. The shaikh tried to save his wife, sending her away to safety, but she soon returned, missing their three daughters and two sons, he said. In early October, the terrorists surrounded the house and dragged her away.
Not long after, Ebrahim received the death certificate. A simple sheet of paper from an “Islamic court” with a judge’s signature, it said only that Buthaina’s death was verified, nothing more. He has no idea where her body is.
Delivery from Daesh came to Eski Mosul at the hands of Kurdish fighters. Amid the joy over liberation, many residents discarded documents from Daesh.
But Ebrahim is keeping the death certificate as a connection to his wife, “because it has her name on it.”
A former soldier in the village, Salim Ahmad, said he is keeping his repentance card. Daesh might be gone, but the fear it instilled in him is not.
“We live very close to their front line,” he said. “One day, they might come back and ask me for my repentance card again.”
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