The Orphans of Alqosh
Iraq’s conflict and displacement crisis through the eyes of two children
One evening late in the summer of 2014 people from five villages in the province of Nineveh streamed onto the roads along with the orphans from Alqosh. Between their cars and ISIS stood only burning pyres of rubbish and an emptying no man’s land. Milad Hani, 9, and his brother Wissam, 11, were part of the exodus.
Along the highway the convoy came to a stop. Men in camouflage uniforms with dark eyes leaned into the car to check the travellers’ documents. Wissam thought they were from ISIS. He kept quiet and didn’t tell his younger brother he was scared; then he noticed the caps and badges of the Kurdish Peshmerga fighters and knew they were entering the Kurdish region. Milad, the younger brother, held his shoes on his lap “I didn’t have time to put them on,” he tells me softly.
When I visit the orphanage which is part of the Virgin Mary Monastery three months later, children are milling around on their way to and from the TV room. Milad and Wissam show me where they sleep in a room lined with rows of small chipped beds and a cross on the wall.
The boys are shy, polite and eager to please, calmly showing me around. Milad has broad limpid brown eyes and listens intently while we talk. Wissam’s brows are lower and more defined. He prefers to fidget and plays with a nearby camera to keep his hands busy. Their favourite possessions – a Barcelona football shirt for Wissam and the umbrella for Milad – were given to them by the surviving members of their family. When I ask them to recall what happened this summer they don’t remember fleeing the jihadists who came a few kilometres from Alqosh; but they do remember escaping to the home of their aunts, uncles and cousins in Erbil.
When the boys’ parents married in Baghdad, their mother Jamila – which means beautiful in Arabic – wasn’t expecting so many endings. Milad and Wissam were born just after Saddam was ousted as security across the country started to collapse. Explosions targeted churches and Baghdad began haemorrhaging its Christians; many fled north to towns that are now, almost ten years later, under ISIS control.
They moved to Erbil, the Iraqi Kurdish capital where the bombs didn’t reach, but after Milad’s birth there were arguments and the couple stopped getting along. Then their father Hani left for good. “He had a tendency to run away from problems at home; he would rather flee,” says the boys’ uncle Amer Solaqa.
Before her health started to decline at the end of 2012, Jamila worked as a cleaner in the marbled homes of Kurdish politicians to support the family. She didn’t want her children to see her losing strength so she sent them to the orphanage. In early 2013 Jamila died of breast cancer. When the priests told them what had happened, Milad decided that she must be in heaven; but Wissam was distraught, he cried and was angry.
16/11/2014 Alqosh, Iraq. Milad reads a book in his bed in the dormitory. The children are allowed to stay in bed for longer because it is a Sunday.
In the orphanage there is a picture of Jamila given to the boys by their older siblings. Below the fraying edges of the photograph Jamila’s face is round and pale with pencilled brows and tired eyes. Strokes of black hair fall by her face. “It was too painful for them to look at. So I took it from them and only show it to them once in a while,” Father Yousif, who runs the orphanage, tells me.
Built into the cliff face above the town is a narrow set of caves that make up the 7th century Rabban Hormizd monastery. From up there you can see down to the orphanage where the boys’ lives are made up of school, reading and prayers.
31/10/2014 Alqosh, Iraq. Alqosh is seen from the Rabban Hermizd Monastery.
15/11/2014 Alqosh, Iraq. Wassam (centre right, yellow shirt) raises his hand to answer a question at the Alqosh School. Three of the children from the orphanage currently study at the school, which was founded in 1926.
On the narrow streets of Alqosh below the monastery, men stand in groups looking out at the grey plains where the fighting is taking place. They can’t see or hear the mortars or explosions, but they know they are sharing the same stretch of land under racing skies and many of them are making furtive plans to leave.
Father Joseph Abdul Saade sighs as we stand in the blustery courtyard of the church. Milad and Wissam are inside clearing up after a lunch of pounded bulgar with chunks of meat and oily rice. The meal was eaten almost in silence on long trestle tables.
“Safety?” the priest repeats back to me, standing in the wind outside the orphanage. “Feeling is one thing, faith is another. My human feeling is that we are not even fifty per cent safe. ISIS is 30km away.”
The priests insist their faith protects them, but when ISIS took over Mosul they announced a new Caliphate and gave an ultimatum to Christians in the city to leave, pay a tax, convert or “die by the sword.”
“Christians here don’t have the faith to stay and live with Muslims in Iraq,” says Joseph solemnly as the wind picks up. “They want to leave. I prefer them to stay but human logic says it is better to go, for you, for your kids. What will happen to our monastery if we leave? They will destroy it.” In August, he tells me, the priests took a thousand ancient manuscripts to the Kurdish city of Dohuk for safe keeping.
In the main hall of the orphanage paint is peeling from the wall behind an image of Christ. Budgerigars squawk as Milad passes; he notices his name tacked up on the list of house chores and darts off to help prepare lunch. On Sunday he will put on a flowing white robe and light candles in the Sunday service.
16/11/2014 Alqosh, Iraq. Watched by a friend, Milad prays inside the Der Saida Church. Every Sunday Milad helps Father Jobrail, a priest in the church at the Monastery, with his service.
Wissam is not as interested in following the rules as his brother, he tells me shrugging his shoulders with a slight smile. He loves playing football with the other children in Alqosh or outside his uncle’s house in Erbil where the boys stayed when they fled from ISIS. His uncles and aunts worry about him. He is sensitive and didn’t cope well with his mother’s death. He holds his feelings inside they say.
When I visited the house in Erbil which was also hosting other displaced Christian families, Milad was engrossed in computer games. He became animated when a picture of an ISIS fighter flashed up on the laptop screen showing the news of one of the battles. “He thought it was a monster,” his uncle Salam Hakeem tells me.
At the start of November the boys went back to the orphanage; the house in Erbil was overcrowded and school in Alqosh was starting again. The Kurdish fighters had pushed ISIS back beyond the town of Tel Skof, 17km away, regaining land lost in early August. US planes started dropping bombs on the militants and morale was higher. Wissam cried when he heard that he would soon have to leave. He had been helping uncle Amer in his tailoring shop, ironing clothes and collecting tips from customers and he didn’t want to return.
21/10/2014. Erbil, Iraq. Wissam irons a pair of trousers at his uncle Amir’s tailoring shop in Ainkawa. Wassam wants to visit the shop as his uncle works alone, and because he would like to learn about tailoring.
31/10/2014. Erbil, Iraq. In the early morning, on the day of the boys’ departure, Suzan speaks to Wissam and Milad and asks them to be good at the orphanage and keep on studying.
When Salam took the boys back to Alqosh he told me they seemed different. Milad and Wissam bent down to distract two younger orphans who had just arrived giving them their new toy cars to play with. “When they left the orphanage they were unstable, they didn’t know where they were,” he tells me, “but now they seem more mature.” This summer they fled war and ended up as part of a family again, but they still know how it feels to be without parents.
It is evening now in the orphanage and Wissam sits down in his dorm room and takes out colouring pens and pencils. Perhaps thinking of the fighting taking place not far away, he draws a scene that looks not unlike Alqosh with brown crayon hills and two children playing by a well. As one child steps forward, reaching out with cartoon hands, his foot touches the pencil outline of a bomb. In the background his friend screams out to him, his face is contorted with fear, but he is not heard.
Outside it is evening and the clatter of starlings has died down. Father Yousif, away from his charges and the other priests zips up his wind breaker and lights a cigarette, shielding the small flame with his hand. “Last night there was a football match on TV and we began to hear noises from the front line at Bashiqa, rockets and explosions,” he tells me. “Iraq and Kuwait were playing. The boys love football so we turned the TV up loud to drown out the sound.”
Just after my visit I find out that two more orphans have been taken to Jordan to join their families as refugees. The population is dwindling; those who can escape do, despite church leaders’ calls to stay.
“Where is my mother now?” the younger boy Milad asked his uncle Salam one day earlier this summer. “She is in heaven,” he said. Milad paused for a moment, thinking carefully before replying, “Can I go there?”
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AT THE CHICKEN FARM
The chicken farm stands amid an expanse of wheat fields at the end of a long dirt road several kilometers from the nearest village. It was lush and green when the 47 Sunni Arab families from Jarallah arrived and the ripening wheat stalks rippled in the wind. Now the harvest is over and the parched golden stubble gives up clouds of dust when the wind blows.
THE EXEMPLARY SCHOOL OF SITAK
Isn’t this the story of every mosque, house and city in the Middle East? A mosque is built over the ruins of a church which has been built over the ruins of a synagogue which has been built on the ruins of an ancient temple; and someone comes to ruin it all over again. Ruins inherit ruins, and generations follow generations. They rise from the ashes and restore everything, a long feverish struggle for survival. We cannot call it a war because it isn’t, regardless of the fact that we are all fighting for a dream.
TWO RELIGIONS ONE ROOF
Maysun Yalda and Widad Fadill sit opposite each other, sipping tea under a brightly coloured rug. “It’s Jesus,” says Maysun, pointing towards the male figure sewn into the heavy tapestry hanging from her kitchen wall. 44-year-old Maysun is a Christian from Tel Kaif in Nineveh, some 400km north of 47-year-old Widad’s hometown of Fallujah in Anbar, a Sunni stronghold.
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YEARS OF WANDERING IN THE LAND OF IRAQ
When the Americans came so did al-Qaeda waving the banner of religion. They made a few military operations against the Americans to gain people’s trust and support, but then started slaughtering them. Either you supported them or they killed you. Meanwhile, they wore shorts in the evening and played sports with the Americans to convince them that they were not terrorists.
The air is thick with dust and the smell of sewage in Chermo camp where a cluster of prefabricated cabins house 196 members of the Shabak minority. Brittle fencing draped in freshly-washed clothes separates the makeshift homes from a busy highway; a linear strip of hot tarmac that runs from the town of Chamchamal to the city of Sulaymaniyah in the Kurdistan Region of Iraq. The barren piece of land was lent to the families cost-free by a wealthy Kurdish tribe.
GRAND BAGHDAD HOTEL
I can’t remember my experience in the Grand Baghdad Hotel just by merely thinking of the name because this place looks nothing like a hotel nor does it have anything to do with the glamorous name it bears. Instead, I think of the charming film The Grand Budapest Hotel where cinema beautifies tragedy and where protagonists die smiling or in the middle of a romantic kiss.
OIL AND BLOOD
Zaidoon’s seventeen year-old cousin, Jamal, darts through the refinery’s enormous storage drums. He is trying to fill a jerry can with gasoline for one of the truck drivers who’s pulled up in an empty tanker. Jamal runs over to the huge drum that holds the gasoline and throws open the spigot at the bottom. A jet of black liquid shoots out which then turns clear. Jamal cups his hand and catches some of it, bringing it up to his face as if he’s about to take a sip.