Two Sisters

the prison was quiet, I was awakened by the sound of hurried steps in the room. I heard low voices. What now? It was the trio of tormenters. Again? They’re going to beat those poor men with the injured balls, I thought. Then I saw they were on their way toward me. They pulled me up and threw me against the wall. They handcuffed me and made to drag me from the room. I tried to resist, to cry out, but I was gagged. It was then I noticed that the Libyan was not only armed with a pistol as usual but also an AK-47. I was marched down the corridor, the muzzle of the rifle pressed between my shoulder blades. Then the Eritrean said something that really scared me. ‘No, this is wrong! I won’t be a part of it!’ he said, stopping in his tracks. That’s when I realized I was in grave danger. They pulled me down the corridor. I could feel the rifle in my back and I hoped the other guards would hear my cries. I was flung into a vehicle, but not driven far, only to the next building. I feared that this was the place where they carry out beheadings, so the bodies would be easy to move and the yard not soiled with blood. ‘Your life is over,’ the Libyan whispered in my ear. ‘We usually let a condemned man pray before killing him, but not you, because you’re no Muslim … kafir!’ The one in charge, the fat one, said, ‘Look around. This is the last place you’re ever going to see.’ Then he said, ‘I want to be pure when I meet Allah, so I’ll grant you one final request. What do you want, traitor?’ I told them, ‘I do not fear death, but please, treat me with respect. I do not want to die with my hands bound behind my back.’ I continued, ‘These handcuffs are painful. I’m not young like the two of you.’ The stocky one took a small key from his pocket, handed it to the Libyan, and said, ‘Give him his final request.’ The Libyan fumbled with the handcuffs, it was dark and he could not see very well. The handcuff on my right wrist came off but the manacle on my left wrist remained. Three words flashed inside my mind: Save your life!”

Sadiq paused for effect. “I raised my arm. In one swift movement I hit the Libyan right in the face with the handcuffs. Reeling, he lost his balance but kept hold of me and we both fell to the ground. He got his hands to my throat and I fought to pry them free. But he was younger, stronger, I could not move, and I thought, Now I’m finished. He was on top of me. The fat one, standing about ten or fifteen yards away, opened fire. A couple of bullets ricocheted on the gravel right next to us, and the Libyan let out a howl. He had been hit in the thigh. He loosened his grip, wailed, and put his hand to the wound. The bullet had smashed his femur and blood was gushing out. He tried to stop the bleeding, and I snatched the rifle lying on the ground and made off. Once outside, I zigzagged across the ground. I ran, I just ran.”

Osman and his man sat on the mattresses, staring at him.

“And then what?”

Sadiq paused and asked for a cigarette. A soothing sensation coursed through him, the hit of the nicotine paralyzing him for a moment.

“I ran toward the olive grove, but the trees were too spread out, I would be easy to find, so I kept on running, but I was afraid I would run straight into an ISIS troop. I feared what daybreak would bring. The pitch darkness was already being replaced by a gray glow. I heard voices, and a little way off I discerned two figures. An older man and a younger one. They were dressed like farmers, one of them was carrying an old rifle. I had no choice but to trust them and began walking in their direction. When they saw me, they turned. I was still holding the Libyan’s AK-47 and they must have taken me for an ISIS soldier. Then they noticed the handcuffs still hanging from my wrist and understood that I had escaped. Hesitantly, they motioned to me: Come! I followed them across some land, past a farm, and onto a scree at the foot of a hill. There was a small opening between the stones; at first glance it looked like a fox’s den, but it widened almost to a cave a little farther in. ‘Hide here,’ they told me. I crept in feet first. I can stay here, I thought, as I lay on my stomach aiming out at my surroundings. You can trust us, they had said. They had not even asked if they could trust me. Two Syrians, the first people to suffer in this hell, when being asked for help, they helped.”

The men listening to him nodded.

“A little later in the day they returned. ‘Help me get to Abu Hafs,’ I asked them. The judge who had acquitted me was my only hope. A Somali on the run was never going to make it out of ISIS territory. I had to reach Abu Hafs and explain what had happened. The young man removed some of his clothes, typical Syrian farmer’s garb worn in layers. He wrapped a red-and-white shawl around my face. Disguised as a local farmer, I left the scattered woodland, emerged onto the road, and traipsed the few miles toward al-Dana. Abu Hafs’s base lay in the center of town, between the town hall and the market. It was like venturing into the lion’s den, but facing up to those in power was better than being caught at a random roadblock. I could tell by the guards’ dialects that they, like the