Hoffmann Andrea Claudia - The girl who escaped ISIS: this is my story

An Imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

www.SimonandSchuster.com

Copyright 2016 by Bastei Lbbe AG, Kln

Translation 2016 by Jamie Bulloch

Originally published in 2016 in Germany by Bastei Lbbe as Das Mdchen, das den IS besiegte

Published by arrangement with Barbara J. Zitwer Agency and Ariadne-Buch

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Atria Books hardcover edition July 2016

and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or .

The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information, or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

Interior design by Renato Stanisic

Jacket design by Donna Cheng

Jacket photograph Jessica Lia/Millennium Images, Uk

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Khalaf, Farida, author. | Hoffmann, Andrea Claudia, author.

Title: The girl who escaped ISIS : this is my story / Farida Khalaf, Andrea C. Hoffmann.

Other titles: Mdchen, das den IS besiegte. English

Description: New York : Atria Books, 2016.

Identifiers: LCCN 2016022449 (print) | LCCN 2016024958 (ebook) | ISBN 9781501131714 (hardback) | ISBN 9781501152337 (paperback) | ISBN 9781501131721 (eBook)

Subjects: LCSH: Khalaf, Farida. | IS (Organization) | Yezidi womenIraqBiography. | IraqRefugeesBiography. | BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs. | BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY/ Women. | BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Political.

Classification: LCC HV6433.I722 I8558 2016 (print) | LCC HV6433.I722 (ebook) | DDC 956.7044/3 [B]dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016022449

ISBN 978-1-5011-3171-4

ISBN 978-1-5011-3172-1 (ebook)

Although Farida Khalaf is my real name, I am not the girl pictured on the cover. I dont want to show my face. The names of all the other people who appear in this book have been changed. The names of people in public life, however, are real.

M y father showed me how to stand. Put your left foot a touch further forward and bend your legs slightly.

He corrected my posture by taking hold of my shoulders from behind and adjusting my torso so I was facing him directly. As a border guard in the Iraqi army he knew how to handle rifles. He placed the gun, an AK-47, in my hands. The Kalashnikov wasnt as heavy as Id anticipated.

Put your right hand at the back by the trigger, he said. Like that. Now with your left hand you can align the barrel at the front. Aim at the tree trunk over there. I got one of the mulberry trees in our garden in my sights. And fire!

I tentatively fingered the trigger. Nothing happened.

Go on, he said. Dont be afraid, Farida!

I pulled the metal lever gently until finally it clicked quietly. From behind me Dad laughed.

Just like that, he said. Well done!

I looked at him quizzically.

I havent taken off the safety catch. But well change that right away. This is how you do it. He showed me how to release the safety catch on the right-hand side of the receiver. Are you ready?

Of course, I said, focused.

Careful, now.

Okay.

Are you aiming right?

I nodded.

Go on then.

A loud report echoed through our garden and the force of the Kalashnikov had me staggering.

Bravo! Dad said, grinning beneath his dark mustache.

The two of us walked over to the tree, to examine the results of my first shooting attempt. A small piece of metal was lodged in the very right-hand edge of the trunk. The empty cartridge lay in the dust about a meter away.

Youve got talent, my father said. With a little practice youll be better than your mother.

Do you think so? I asked excitedly. He stroked my head with affection.

Yes, youve just got to do it a few times, then itll be a piece of cake. Ill put up a target for you in the garden. Youll see, over time youll lose that fear of the bang and youll be better at offsetting the kick.

I nodded eagerly. I was terribly proud that my father was teaching me, at the age of fifteen, how to handle a Kalashnikov. Hed already shown my mother and my brother Delan, who was a couple of years older than me, how to do it years ago. But not my brother Serhad, who was two years younger. It was a sure sign that he thought I was grown up enough to defend our house and property should it ever come to that.

There were three rifles in a box in my parents bedroom. One was Dads army service rifle; the others hed picked up at the bazaar.

Women need to know how to use a weapon too, he said. When Ive got enough money Ill buy another AK-47 so that theres one for each of us in an emergency.

Dad didnt specify what this emergency might be. And I didnt have the imagination to picture it. Back then it didnt cross my mind that my fathers caution might be linked to the fact that we were Yazidis and not Muslims. I was just thinking of burglars who might try to steal our valuables. I was just fifteen years old, and the catastrophe awaiting us in the future was completely beyond the scope of my known world.

W e lived in Kocho, a village on the plain to the south of Mount Sinjar in northern Iraq. It had 1,700 inhabitants. In spring the countryside is ablaze with all the colors of the rainbow. Around the village the many trees and plants come into bloom, as well as grasses on which the shepherds drive their goats. In summer the heat dries everything out and the plants wither. Because of this the villagers had created a few ponds around Kocho, from which we irrigated our fields. Every day we had to water our garden too, which was surrounded by a high wall. This was one of my chores. Mornings and evenings I would take the long hose, turn on the tap on the terrace, and spray all our plants.

We had a very beautiful garden in which mulberry, almond, and apricot trees grew. And in their shade the vegetables that my mother planted thrived too: zucchinis, leeks, eggplants, potatoes, onions, salad, and heads of cabbage. Around the terrace a variety of roses flowered, giving off a beguiling aroma, especially in the evenings. In the hot season my mother, my younger brothers, Serhad, Shivan, Keniwar, and I would spend almost our entire time in this little paradise. My father and my elder brother, Delan, enjoyed the peace and fresh air here too, when they werent working.

The house itself was on one floor and had five rooms: a kitchen, a living room, my parents bedroom, a bedroom for my four brothersand one for me. As the sole daughter of the family I was entitled to my own little realm. Despite this I often regretted having no sisters, with whom I would have gladly shared my room. I was, however, allowed to invite friends back as often as I liked. My friend Evin and my cousin Nura were regular visitors to our house. Nura and I were in the same class. By now, I was eighteen and in my final year of school, and eager to consider what life might have in store for me next. Evin, on the other hand, was a few years older than us and had already finished school. We envied all the free time she had; we frequently had to spend long afternoons doing our homework, while she helped her female relatives with odd chores around the house, and looked forward to being married off to some cousin. Her greatest dream was to become a housewife with lots of children. With her calm, even temper, Evin was like an elder sister to Nura and me.