THE GIRL WHO BEAT ISIS

The Girl who Beat ISISFarida’s Story

Farida Khalaf

with Andrea C. Hoffmann

Translated from the German by Jamie Bulloch

LONDON

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Square Peg, an imprint of Vintage,20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,

London SW1V 2SA

Square Peg is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

This book has been selected to receive financial assistance from English PEN’s “PEN Translates!” programme, supported by Arts Council England. English PEN

exists to promote literature and our understanding of it, to uphold writers’ freedoms around the world, to campaign against the persecution and imprisonment of writers

for stating their views, and to promote the friendly co-operation of writers and the free exchange of ideas. www.englishpen.org

Copyright © Farida Khalaf 2016Translation copyright © Jamie Bulloch 2016

Farida Khalaf has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

First published by Square Peg, 2016

penguin.co.uk/vintage

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9781910931011

Typeset in India by Thomson Digital Pvt Ltd, Noida, Delhi

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives PLC

Penguin Random House is committed to a sustainable future for our business, our readers and our planet. This book is made from Forest

Stewardship Council® certified paper.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Farida Khalaf is not my real name, and I am not the girl pictured

on the cover. I don’t 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.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE 1

1. OUR WORLD AS IT ONCE WAS 5

2. ONE FINAL WONDERFUL SUMMER 13

3. THE CATASTROPHE 30

4. THE SLAVE MARKET IN RAQQA 59

5. IN THE DARK ROOM 82

6. WITH THE ‘BEASTS’ 107

7. IN THE MILITARY CAMP 123

8. THE ROAD OUT OF HELL 150

9. NO HOME, NOT ANYWHERE 177

EPILOGUE 197

CO-WRITER’S NOTE 201

W

PROLOGUE

My 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 front on. 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 wasn’t as heavy as I’d

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. ‘Don’t 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 haven’t taken off the safety catch. But we’ll 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.’

T H E G I R L W H O B E A T I S I S2

‘OK.’

‘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 moustache.

The two of us walked over to the tree, to examine the results of

my first shooting attempt. And, in the event, a small piece of metal

was lodged at the very right-hand edge of the trunk. The empty

cartridge lay in the dust about a metre away.

‘You’ve got talent,’ my father said. ‘With a little practice you’ll be

better than your mother.’

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

affection.

‘Yes, you’ve just got to do it a few times, then it’ll be a piece of

cake. I’ll put up a target for you in the garden. You’ll see, over time

you’ll lose that fear of the bang and you’ll 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. He’d already

shown my mother and my brother Delan, who was a couple of years

older than me, how to do it years ago. Although 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 Dad’s army service rifle; the others he’d picked up at the

bazaar.

‘Women need to know how to use a weapon too,’ he said. ‘When

I’ve got enough money I’ll buy another AK-47 so that there’s one

for each of us in an emergency.’

Dad didn’t specify what this emergency might be. And I didn’t

have the imagination to picture it. Back then it didn’t cross my mind

P R O L O G U E 3

that my father’s circumspection 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 only fifteen years old and the

catastrophe awaiting us in the future was completely beyond my

imagination.