Shortly after the helicopters had departed two additional cars joined us and the mujahedeen began hastily transferring the huge stockpiles of explosives and rockets into them. “We are making them into suicide bombs,” said Mubashir, the Emir’s brother, of the cars being loaded and wired. “These men will head back into Tal Afar and use the vehicles to destroy the American armoured vehicles. A total of four mujahedeen climbed into the suicide cars and as they drove back into the battle, their comrades shouted a final encouragement.
We proceeded on through the desert towards the northern outskirts of Mosul. Along the way we stopped at several farmhouses where the residents eagerly offered the fighters food and water. When we actually entered the Mosul checkpoint, the Iraqi police appeared to take no notice of the dusty column of cars packed with bearded men armed with Kalashnikovs and RPGs. A gauntlet of young boys lined the route to cheer our convoy and offer water and cigarettes. Instead of entering the city however, we headed further north to a deserted house that was still under construction. We were ordered inside the building, and it was at this point I realized that the other hostage, a driver for UNICEF, had spent the entire 3 hour desert transit in the trunk of one of the cars. He emerged from the vehicle, still blindfolded, covered in dust and sweat, and without his shoes. He was in terrible condition, but he made no sound of complaint as they hurried us into the empty house.
“The Turkish girl will live, you two will die, he said pointing at me…”
There was some confusion among the fighters at this point. They were eager to return to Tal Afar – not sit out the battle in a safe house. All but one of their cars soon departed, leaving only two armed guards with us. The possibility of escape certainly crossed my mind. It was the hottest part of the day and the sentries were exhausted. Although it was open ground, the Mosul highway was clearly, visible about 2 kilometres away. With all the passing traffic it would be possible to flag down a ride – if I could only survive the run.
Before I could give much thought to such a plan, another car pulled up at our hideout. Four new mujahedeen strode into our building and immediately began berating the two guards for being lenient with us. The leader of this group was a short, stocky, little man who strutted about with his ski-mask on. He wasted no time in making his thoughts known. “The Turkish girl will live, you two will die. he said pointing at me and the UNICEF driver. “I will cut off your heads at dusk and you will be buried there,” pointing to a freshly dug grave-sized ditch about twenty metres from the house.
Zeynep was removed to another room and we were told to prepare ourselves to die. Although forbidden to talk whenever the guard was distracted, the driver and I took the opportunity to encourage each other and try to provide support. “At least we will not die alone,” he said.
As dusk approached we were offered a final meal of flatbread, roast chicken and tomatoes. The maniacal little leader came to watch us eat, all the while aiming his gun at us. “Eat, eat” Why do you have no appetite, are you afraid American pig?” he said and then laughed at his own joke. Although I was certainly not hungry, I did my best to choke down a few difficult mouthfuls. Inside, I had to stifle a trembling fear from overcoming my composure. My fellow prisoner began to sob, and I reached over to take his hand.
“How long do you think the pain will last?” he asked. It was something which I had been giving careful consideration and I replied, “About three seconds”. As the sun started to set on the horizon, Mubashir drove up and entered into a heated argument with the newcomer. Reassured at the sound of his voice, I had risked a glance out of the window just in time to see the ceremonial dagger being returned to the trunk of the car. We had been spared once again.
