Ismail al-Kanon is interviewed in his home in Erbil, Iraq, on Nov. 25.(Photo: Sam Tarling, PRI.org)
ishtartv.com - usatoday.com
Richard Hall,
Jan. 26, 2017
Ismail
al-Kanon had been held captive for more than a year, and threatened with
execution more times than he cared to remember. But this time was different.
The
people who held him, Islamic State fighters, found in his possession a
picture of Jesus and two small crosses. They took the items away, burned them,
and told him he would be beheaded if they found any more.
Ismail
could tell they were serious this time. So he took his last cross — the only
one they hadn’t found — and hid it very carefully in the back of a cable receiver
box.
“When
I left it there, I told myself the cross is not just around the neck, it’s in
the heart,” Ismail, 16, said.
It
was a small act of defiance — an attempt to retain a part of himself. It was
also a symbol of hope. He was telling himself that one day he would be back to
collect it. That he would survive.
For
two years, Ismail and his mother, Jandar Nasi, were captives of the
Islamic State. More than most people living under the group’s rule, they had
reason to expect that they would never escape.
When
Islamic State fighters captured Mosul in the summer of 2014,
they offered Christians a choice: either convert to Islam or pay a tax. Anyone
who refused these options, they announced, “will have nothing but the sword.”
For
the roughly 100,000 Christians living in northern Iraq, the message was
terrifying. Most fled to the relative safety of the semi-autonomous Kurdish
region, along with tens of thousands of Muslims, Kurds and members of the
Yazidi religious minority.
But
not everyone was able to escape.
“We’re
the only ones who stayed, everybody else left. We had no clue what had
happened,” Ismail said.
Ismail
and Jandar are Chaldean Catholics, the leading Christian denomination in
Iraq. They were living in Bartella, a Christian town east of
Mosul. The town largely emptied when the Islamic State made its advance.
Ismail’s mother was too sick to travel, so they hid in their home. When they
emerged three days later, there was practically nobody in sight.
They
went to the main road, flagged down a car and asked to go to Erbil, the
capital of the Kurdish region. They got as far as a checkpoint in Khazer,
midway between Mosul and Erbil. It was manned by armed men with beards.
“There
were some men at a checkpoint. They asked me where I am from. I told one of
them I was a Christian from Bartella. He ordered me to step out of the car and
hit me on the head. He then tied my hands and took us to Mosul,” Ismail
said. “That was the first time I saw ISIS.”
He
didn’t know it then, but that was the start of his two-year nightmare.
Ismail
is a wiry young man, tall and still growing. He comes across as shy at first,
but that impression soon gives way when a topic takes him.
Aside
from video games and computers, the story of how he escaped the clutches of the
deadly terror group is one such topic.
His
is a story of survival, strong will and dedication to his mother, who shared
his nightmare with him.
It
begins with the U.S. invasion of Iraq in 2003, when he was just 3 years old.
That
year would set in motion a chain of events that still affect Ismail’s life
today. Even before ISIS came along, Iraq’s Christian population had been
steadily dwindling.
The last census in Iraq — conducted in
1987 — counted 1.4 million Christians. Many were reported to have fled during the 1990s, when US
sanctions against the country started to bite.
That
flight accelerated after 2003, when the US invaded Iraq to remove Saddam
Hussein. Extremist groups like al-Qaeda that rose in the chaotic insurgency
against US occupation targeted and killed Christians, who left en masse, to
Syria, Europe and elsewhere.
By
2013, the Christian population of Iraq stood at around 500,000, according to
the U.S. Commission on International Religious Freedom, in a country
of nearly 40 million people. Church leaders in Iraq put the number today as low
as 275,000, the bipartisan government commission said in its annual report.
Bartella,
where Ismail grew up, retained its Christian identity. It is home to six
churches, one of which was right by his home. He helped out during services.
His religion was important to him.
So
when, a few days into his captivity, he was forced to convert to Islam, it hurt
him deeply.
“One
of the ISIS fighters asked us, ‘Why won’t you become Muslims?’ We
told him that we didn’t want to. He got angry at me,” Ismail said.
“They
put the gun on my head and told my mother, ‘If you don’t convert we will kill
your son.’ We were scared. My mother told him to give us some time to think.”
While
they were thinking, the men went to a cell next door. Ismail could hear
everything. A Shiite Muslim man was told to convert to Sunni Islam or he
would die. He refused. The militants shot him.
“They
came and took us to [the man’s corpse] and told us that this would be my
fate if we don't convert,” he said.
“My
mother then said let’s do whatever they want so that they wouldn’t kill me. So
we told them yes, we will convert. They asked us to say the shahada and
we said it,” he added, referring to the Muslim profession of faith.
The
forced conversion would save their lives. But it wasn’t real to
them. Ismail still wore a cross under his shirt.
The
pair were moved around between different houses, and kept under a virtual house
arrest. ISIS fighters mistreated them horribly.
“They
would come and check on us every day and teach us the prayers. When we didn't
learn their prayer correctly, they would beat us,” Ismail said.
He
was forced to watch his mother beaten and humiliated many times.
“My
mother is epileptic. She would learn something then forget it after she
had a seizure. They would teach her, then come to her the next day, they
would ask her the same question but she wouldn’t know the answer,” he said.
“They
would then take a needle and stick it in her flesh, they would say the blood
will keep coming out until you learn.”
Ismail
would pass the time playing video games on his laptop. He played “Grand
Theft Auto” nearly every day — never in the presence of Islamic State fighters.
Sometimes he would walk down to the market just to watch people. But he was
incredibly lonely. He couldn’t talk to anyone.
“I
would swim in the river, or go the souks, just to blend in with them. I was too
afraid to talk to anyone in case they found out I was Christian and punished
me,” he said.
His
boredom and isolation were punctuated by horror.
“During
that time they came and arrested me seven times. They would take me from the
house and take me to a prison. They would sometimes keep me there for three
days. Every time, they would give me 25 lashes, shave my head and then release
me,” he said.
Ismail and
his mother tried to escape often, but each time were caught and punished.
Twice, they waited until their minders had gone and convinced a driver to take
them out of Mosul. But then they ran into an Islamic
State checkpoint.
He
was only 14 when he was captured, but Ismail took on the responsibility of
caring for his mother.
Jandar,
54, can’t move around much. Today, as they both sit in a small room in an
office building in Erbil that’s housing Christian families who fled the Islamic
State, she is happy to be alive.
“He’s
a gift from God. He saved me from death,” she said of her son. “Many times
they tortured him. If not for him, I’d be gone.”
Ismail
watched the news every day. He knew that the Iraqi army was planning an
offensive to recapture Mosul, and he wanted to get as close to the battle lines
as possible so he could escape.
When
the fighting came to the city limits, Ismail’s handlers became occupied with
combat. Ismail and his mother slipped away from the house they were being held
in and found an empty apartment just behind the front line.
The
neighborhood of Samah was under siege, and the fighting raged all around them.
“ISIS
were on the roofs of the buildings, they saw us and started shooting at us.
They aimed at my mother but [the bullet] went through her robe and
didn’t hit her. She could have died,” he said.
Despite
the risks, they did not want to turn back.
“We
thought that either we die or we get to the army, it would be way better than
staying with ISIS.”
“I
took a white sheet and wrapped it on a stick, then we ran toward the
army,” he said.
Finally,
after his long punishment, he escaped Islamic State territory. He was
liberated.
“I
was in disbelief. I saw the army’s faces, they had no beards, their faces were
clear like a shining light. I would see ISIS fighters all the time looking like
monkeys, hair all over, they looked like they came from the stone ages,” he
said.
Ismail
and his mother were taken to a camp for displaced people east of Mosul. They
stayed there a few days before going to Erbil, where they now live, in an
abandoned office building.
They
were fortunate to make it out alive. According to some church leaders in Iraq,
more than 500 Christians were killed during the ISIS takeover of
Mosul. John Kerry, the former U.S. secretary of State, said the Islamic State “is responsible for
genocide against groups in areas under its control including Yazidis,
Christians and Shia Muslims.”
But
Ismail doesn’t feel lucky. His ordeal has taken a huge toll.
“I’m
mentally and physically tired,” he said.
“My
feelings towards ISIS are that I want to completely erase them. But at the same
time our religion doesn’t promote cruelty. It says ‘Whoever hits you on the
cheek offer him the other also.’”
Before
the Islamic State was kicked out of Ismail’s hometown of Bartella, they
ransacked the churches, burning pews and smashing altars. (Watch our video of walking through one of the
churches.)
He
thinks the cross that he hid is still where he left it. He had meant to go back
to get it. Now, he is not so sure if he will.
“I
will leave Iraq,” he said. “It is ruined.”
His
mother nods silently in agreement.
Jandar Nasi is a 54-year-old Christian Iraqi who fled ISIS-held Mosul with her son. (Photo: Sam Tarling, PRI.org)
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