Tarfa al-Amin al-Ghadir

My name is Tarfa al-Amin al-Ghadir. I am the mother of the martyr Hamad Obeid al-Mousa, who was born in 1996. My son left school after sixth grade because he struggled academically. He began working in repairing motorbikes instead. We lived in financial hardship, and his daily earnings were essential to cover our family’s necessities. Later, we sent him to Saudi Arabia, where he worked for six months until returning home during Ramadan in 2014, as we were planning to arrange his marriage.

 

In our town of Kishkiyya, we had heard of ISIS but knew very little about them. Initially, we believed they were Muslims like us –  decent people who wanted to gather others in mosques for prayer and group iftars (meals to break the fast in Ramadan). However, as Ramadan neared its end, they began acting differently. They imposed a dress code on both men and women, and started to target smokers. They began arresting people who violated their rules, and would not inform anyone as to where they were detained.

 

As Eid drew closer, their harassment increased. ISIS started threatening to enter Kishkiyya, prompting locals to fight against them, including attacking their base in the Kishkiyya municipality building. In response, ISIS began arresting everybody involved.

 

At that time, we were unaware that they were beheading people, or that they were bringing reinforcements from Iraq and elsewhere. ISIS began their attempts to invade the Shaitat towns, but our men successfully repelled them. After that, they tightened their siege on us from all sides.

 

The battle between ISIS and Shaitat fighters lasted for 12 days, during which ISIS imposed a tight siege on us and killed anyone who tried to leave the area. The sounds of shelling and bombing roared around us, so we stayed in our home scared and unable to leave. We experienced constant power outages, so most people went to sleep after sunset due to lack of light.

 

Subsequently, ISIS ordered us to evacuate our villages, promising that we would be allowed back in three days. When we evacuated, we left behind everything that we owned. Yet, those three days stretched into five months.

 

We fled to the town of Bahra, where we lived, along with six other families, in shops along a public street. During this time, we were terrified of ISIS patrols as they conducted frequent raids and arrested any young men they encountered. We lived in constant fear, surrounded by the sounds of gunfire and crying babies. Our men didn’t dare to go outside and kept trying to learn of safe places to hide. We, the women, had to bring water and other necessities for our families.

 

We grew weary of the bleak conditions in which we lived and finally decided it was time to leave. We rented a car and headed to the town of Shafa. However, on the way, an ISIS patrol stopped and arrested us. They took us to a school and separated the men from the women. The men endured beatings and torture throughout the night, before being forced onto buses and taken to an unknown location. The women screamed, pleading for help to protect our fathers, brothers, and sons. I tried to stop them from taking my son, but no one listened.

 

I left the school with the other women after residents of Shafa negotiated our release. We sought refuge under a eucalyptus tree, exposed to strong winds for an entire week. Throughout that time, I searched for my son. I went to ISIS centers in Mayadin and asked about him, but always received the same response: “We haven’t seen him, and we don’t know where he is.” 

 

After that, we moved to a school in the town of Hajin, but we were still scared of ISIS patrols carrying out raids. Finally, after negotiations between local dignitaries and ISIS officials, we were allowed to return to our village. I returned to find my house completely looted. Our cow had been taken, and our tree had been cut down.

 

I resumed my search for my son, only to discover that he had been killed in the desert, like many other young men. Some of us were able to identify our dead, while others could not due to the state of decomposition. I identified my son’s body by his clothes. Because he had worked as a motorbike mechanic, stains of motor oil were still visible on his hands.

 

I don’t know the exact date of his death, but he was arrested in August 2014. We were forbidden from holding a condolence ceremony and had no choice but to bury him hurriedly, covering his body with a blanket.

 

In the months following our return to Kishkiyya, ISIS continued to harass us, and maintain restrictions on our clothing and behavior. We were not allowed to return home until we gave them a rifle and four magazines.

 

I still remember Hamad’s kindness. He used to kiss me before leaving the house and again upon his return. I had dreamed of seeing him marry, but he died before I could celebrate that moment.