Bontinck - Rescued from isis - the gripping true story of how a father saved his son

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To my son, with faith in the love that conquers all, and hope for peace in the world

DAY AFTER DAY, I kept hearing the words Kafr Hamra. The Syrian fighters I met told me I had to go to this village with the strange name north of the city I was staying in. Kafr Hamra. Kafr Hamra. All the Europeans were there. British, French, Belgian. Kafr Hamra. Its the base of the Westerners.

It was like a refrain from a song I couldnt get out of my head no matter how hard I tried. Have you gone to Kafr Hamra? people asked, their expressions touched with confusion. Like, what the hell are you doing here in Aleppo? Go to Kafr Hamra. Obviously.

But there was a problem. My driver and many other people were telling me to stay far away from Kafr Hamra. Activists, journalists, ordinary people, and other jihadis were all very firm on this point. The fighters who occupied the village were paranoid, they said, violent, unpredictable. They wouldnt react well to a Westerner just showing up. So what if I was looking for my son? These guys didnt care about that. Exactly what the people of the village would do if a strange pale-faced man knocked on their door wasnt really spelled out, but it was clearly not good.

Everyone agreed that there were European fighters in Kafr Hamra. That wasnt the question. The question was, will you get out of the place with your spleen and your face intact?

So I put off going there. Better to chase down the other leads first. I filed Kafr Hamra under Last Resorts.

At that moment, Id been in Syria for two weeks looking for my son. When Id crossed the border, Id felt a completely unexpected burst of courage that had carried me through the often chaotic and confusing days ahead. It was like a shot of adrenaline. In fact, before Id boarded the plane, Id been thinking I was going to feel the opposite emotion in Syria: total, paralyzing fear. Like when you wonder what you would do in battle, save your buddies or run. That kind of fear.

But no. I felt ten feet tall when I got to Syriayounger, more audacious, ready to take on risks I would have considered nuts back in Belgium. It was a gift. After months of agonizing about what to do about Jay, I was actually on the ground following his trail. I was making contacts. I was getting information; some of it worthless, sure, but some of it leading me closer to my son. I was putting my life on the line, just like his was.

Was I afraid? Yes, sometimes. Very afraid. My hands shook when I lit the shitty bootleg Marlboros that are everywhere in Syria. (Jesus, I would have sold my soul for some real Virginia tobacco.) But honestly, I hadnt felt this alive in years. Believe journalists when they tell you that going to war zones is addictive. I was feeling the first kick of the drug and it was strong.

But those two words, Kafr Hamra, kept hammering away in the back of my mind. As daring as I felt, I didnt want to go there. I believed the jihadis who told me to avoid it. Some of these men had scars, bullet wounds that hadnt healed properly. Theyd seen battle, theyd lost friends, theyd faced tanks and RPGs and Syrian President Bashar al-Assads planes. Very serious stuff that made them serious people, in my eyes. If they told me to definitely, positively, 100 percent not do something, I was going to listen.

So I didnt go. Theres brave, I told myself, and then theres stupid.

* * *

After a week more, however, I hadnt found a single other lead on Jays whereabouts, nothing that any two people on the ground could agree on. I couldnt ignore Kafr Hamra anymore: all signs pointed toward the village. I had to face my fears, or else what was I doing here in Syria but running around like a lunatic and giving the snipers a pale white face to target in their rifle sights?

Either I went to Kafr Hamra or I went home.

I told my driver and the two journalists, Narciso and Joanie, I was traveling with what Id decided. We drove through Aleppo to the village, passing several checkpoints manned by jihadis on the way. My gut tightened every time a fighter leaned into the window of the car and asked who we were. I said nothing, as Id been instructed. Narciso and Joanie also stayed silent. These were the moments we dreaded the most.

I was bone-tired; my skin was peeling from sunburn and Id already lost ten pounds. If I never saw another plate of hummus again, it would be too soon for me. I wanted a hot shower, a glass of good whiskey, and a real bed. But I couldnt leave Syria without coming to this place.

We pulled up to the villa, larger than I imagined and painted the color of sand. There were two armed men standing guard, their faces covered by balaclavas. They pointed their AK-47s at the hood of the car.

Who are you? one said in Arabic.

The driver answered. He is the father of the Belgian, looking for his son.

The two men consulted between themselves. One of them ran inside. I waited in the car, needing a smoke. Was Jay inside there? Would I see his face and embrace him at last? Or would they tell me that he was dead?

The young man came out of the house. Only you, he said, pointing to me. And you two. The Syrians whod helped me find the place. Narciso and Joanie didnt protest. I got the impression that they were happy to wait outside.

I took a deep breath, opened the car door, and followed the young man. My heart was thumping. There was a row of shoes next to the door to the house. I looked quickly to see if I recognized Jays, but I didnt want to be seen inspecting the boots and sneakers like a third-rate detective, so I slipped mine off and put them at the end of the row.

My guides stayed in the lobby as I walked inside the villa. The entry opened up into a large living room where sofas were pushed against the wall. There were PlayStation controllers hooked up to a console, their black wires snaking toward a flat-screen TV on the wall. There were dozens of young men here, some of them wearing balaclavas, some not. Their eyes followed me. The room was quiet.

There was a man sitting on a small sofa, alone. He had intense black eyes, a broad nose, long flowing black hair, and a thick black beard. He looked liked Jesus, honestly, which was a bit weird, but then again, so many of the Islamic fighters did. His right leg was pulled up onto the sofa, a cushion beneath the knee. He appeared to be wounded. I didnt find out until later, but this was Abu Absi, the first emir in Syria to swear allegiance to ISIS, something that had happened only months before.

Thats what the people in Aleppo had been warning me about. How insane this new group that called itself the Islamic State really was. The group didnt use that title, not yet. But they sensed these people were different.

Absis hand rose and he motioned for me to approach. I took a few steps. I felt that if I moved too suddenly toward the emirI assumed he was the emirthat I would be cut down by a spray of bullets before I could reach him.

I sat down on the carpet in front of Absi. Before I could begin my appeal, he spoke. I have no Belgians in my group.