Sleeper Cell E-Book

Ines Allerheiligen

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 143

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Mosul during the reign of ISIS: Aliya grows up in a world shaped by tradition, faith, and strict rules. A life marked by obedience and religious rigor. An arranged marriage to a young doctor brings her to London-to a cold, godless society that is alien to her. Torn between homesickness and inner turmoil, Aliya seeks refuge in a mosque and discovers a community of women with similar beliefs. What initially appears to be friendship soon reveals itself as a dangerous web of extremist ideas.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Mosul – 2015

London

Secret meetings

Dangerous game

A message

New plans

The attack

A new life

About the author

Mosul – 2015

The city groaned under the relentless midday heat. The air shimmered over the cracked asphalt streets, where small, deceptive puddles collected like liquid silver – merely an illusion, born of the heat. People had long since retreated to their houses, seeking shelter from the scorching sun. Even the shadows seemed dull and lifeless, as if the heat had robbed them of all depth. The shutters of most buildings were closed. The temperature had risen to a relentless 43 degrees Celsius this week. The sky stretched cloudless and leaden over the city, an endless, merciless blue, with no relief in sight. You could practically taste the dust on your lips. It settled on your skin, mixed with your sweat, and formed a thin film that was almost impossible to wipe away. The plants in the front gardens stood with drooping leaves, withered and brittle like old paper.

Mosul, the second-largest city in Iraq after Baghdad, lay on the western bank of the mighty Tigris River, which originated in eastern Turkey. Its waters carved through the landscape, winding through barren plains and fertile valleys before skirting the Syrian border and flowing further south. There, it joined the Euphrates, and together they flowed as a mighty river through the heart of Mesopotamia, finally disappearing into the Persian Gulf.

The Tigris River was the lifeblood of this city, but in the scorching heat of summer, even its waters seemed to flow more slowly. Powdery layers of dust settled along the banks, scattered in all directions by the wind.

Mosul, a city rich in history and diversity, was characterized by its numerous mosques, their minarets proudly rising into the sky. Particularly striking was the Great Mosque of Al-Nuri, whose ornate tower was a landmark of the Mosul skyline. It was a place of prayer, but also a symbol of cultural identity and architectural mastery.

With the discovery of oil in the 20th century, the city transformed rapidly. This newfound prosperity was reflected in the form of modern buildings that sprang up among traditional structures. Oil refineries sprang up and spread throughout the surrounding area. A new infrastructure emerged, with new roads, bridges, and utilities, to support the growing population and industry. But Mosul remained a city that had not forgotten its history. The old mosques, the bazaars, and the narrow streets continued to tell stories from past centuries.

But the peaceful diversity that once characterized Mosul had shattered. Many people had left the city in recent years. In June 2014, Mosul fell into the hands of the so-called Islamic State. The brutal conquest changed the city irrevocably.

Mosul was once a city of diverse cultures and faiths. Kurds, Yazidis, Arabs, Shiites, Sunnis, and Christians lived side by side here. Their languages and traditions shaped the cityscape and were each destroyed by the jihadist invasion.

Christians in particular suffered under the new rule. They were given a choice: either convert to Islam, leave the city, or be executed. The streets, once filled with lively commerce, became emptier. Houses stood abandoned, entire neighbourhoods seemed deserted. Since then, the strict rules of the so-called caliphate prevailed. Sharia law was enforced with iron severity, and life in Mosul changed dramatically.

Life in Mosul was now characterized by constant control and fear. There were rules and harsh punishments for everything. Men had to wear long beards—a symbol of supposed righteousness. If a beard wasn't long enough, a fine of 10,000 dinars followed. Clothing was also controlled: If trousers weren't short enough, there were ten lashes. But these rules were just the beginning. Cell phones were banned, as were the internet, cigarettes, photographs, hookahs, and music. Anything considered un-Islamic or that could threaten the rulers' control was rigorously suppressed.

But as is so often the case, the rules didn't apply to everyone equally. Foreign IS fighters enjoyed special rights. They were allowed to visit internet cafes, while the locals were completely cut off from the outside world.

The streets, once filled with voices and life, were now silent and tense. One wrong word, one inappropriate look, and punishment threatened, which only made things worse.

The cityscape had changed. The faces of the images in the city, even those of animals, had been painted over. The heads of sculptures in parks, museums, and public squares had been cut off. Only Allah was supposed to have the power to create creatures.

The new IS-controlled authorities levied a tax on everything. Anyone who couldn't pay it had to join the fight. The traditional textbooks in the schools were burned, and new textbooks were introduced. In these, the children learned about assembling weapons, how to operate them, how to drive a tank, and they watched videos of the beheading of infidels.

Aliya's family was among those who suffered particularly under the new regime. Their modest income was barely enough to meet the constant demands of the occupiers. Many families were able to use bribes or connections to keep their sons away from school, where the ideology of the so-called Islamic State was taught. But Aliya's family had neither enough money nor influential contacts.

So, they had no choice. Rais, the family's only son, had to go to school. He left home every day with a heavy heart, because the lessons no longer consisted of mathematics, history, or literature. Instead, hatred was preached, war was glorified, and obedience to the self-appointed leaders was demanded. Rais was a scrawny 14-year-old boy with large, fearful eyes. While his classmates already proudly displayed their first beards, which they had grown exactly according to the rules, only a small fuzz had formed on his upper lip. They called him walid sarier, or little boy. There were many boys in his class who were there against their will, but none suffered as much as Rais.

Aliya's family was not particularly large. Besides her brother Rais, she had two sisters. Muna, the eldest, was now twenty years old, while Mariam, at eighteen, was only two years younger. Aliya herself was the youngest in the family. She had turned sixteen in the spring. Muna and Mariam were already married and no longer lived at home. Their weddings had been simple but joyful occasions—celebrations full of laughter, music, and delicious food. Memories that felt like they came from another life. Now she lived alone in the house with her parents and Rais.

Despite the intense heat, Aliya wore an abaya and a niqab that morning. Only her large, almond-shaped eyes, the colour of dark emeralds, peered vigilantly through the narrow slit of the niqab, watching the cars struggling through the streets of Mosul in the heavy midday traffic. She had pulled black gloves over her hands. Aliya strictly adhered to the dress code that had been introduced since the Islamic State took over Mosul, and she also adhered to the new rules in other ways. She would have loved to go to school in Rais's place to learn everything about true Islam. But as a woman, she wasn't allowed to, and so she had to leave school last year and since then has been helping her mother with the housework.

Every night, when Rais was in bed, she secretly took his school supplies and retreated to the small pantry. There, she made herself comfortable behind the shelf of canned chickpeas and devoured the new books as if they were a great treasure. The words burned themselves into her brain, and she didn't need to read them a second time. Rais had carelessly thrown the books onto the table. Aliya read the words he hated so much and couldn't understand why his rejection was so strong. Perhaps it was the constant fear of being watched and punished if he just thought the wrong thing. But she felt a deep peace and closeness to Allah when she read her brother's books.

Aliya continued to struggle through the heat. Each new step seemed harder than the last. The sun burned mercilessly from the sky, and her clothes clung uncomfortably to her skin.

On the next corner was a large fruit and vegetable market, Aliya's final destination for the day. When she arrived at the market stall where the family usually shopped, the vendor was already putting away some of his wares to close for the midday prayer.

"Can I have some more dates?"

Aliya looked shamefacedly at the street, avoiding the man's direct gaze.

"Of course, which ones would you like?"

"I'll take a kilo of the loose dates over there on the right," she pointed to a box of large dates. She always went to this market stall to buy dates. They were soft and exceptionally sweet. The whole family loved to eat these dates in the evening while her father recited the Quran.

The vendor took four handfuls and dropped the dates into a paper bag. Then he weighed them.

“There you go, exactly one kilo.”

Aliya paid, said her goodbyes, and headed home. The muezzin had already begun the call to prayer, and she had to hurry to avoid missing the zuhur, the midday prayer. From the market, it was only a few minutes to her parents' house. Al Shabab Street was a narrow street lined with low houses with peeling plaster and iron gates. Her family's house stood out from the others, at least to Aliya. It was a beautiful house, not because of its size or splendour, but because of the sense of security it exuded. A small garden adorned the entrance area and wrapped around the house. It was just big enough for the family to keep some chickens and grow a few vegetables. Aliya loved working in the garden. She had planted beautiful flowerbeds right along the wall surrounding the garden. One half of the beds was planted with colourful flowers, around whose blossoms a variety of insects thronged in spring, and the other half was filled with tomatoes, chickpeas, beans, and a variety of herbs whose fragrance hung in the warm air.

Since the sisters moved in with their husbands' families, the garden had been her little kingdom. She fed the chickens and cleaned the coop. Growing vegetables wasn't always easy. Some days there wasn't enough water to irrigate the plants. Then they would dry out, or Aliya would harvest the vegetables when they were still very small, before they were no longer edible. The house was surrounded by a three-meter-high wall to protect it from the neighbours’ view, especially from the men. This allowed Aliya to walk around the garden, work, or simply relax without wearing an abaya or hijab.

At the very back of the garden stood a small Arbor, hidden behind a gnarled olive tree. Two sturdy grape vines had twined themselves around the wooden structure over the years. Their tendrils, entwined like a natural net, almost completely enveloping the cottage. A small, narrow stone path wound directly from the house entrance. A white and a red grape cluster wound along each side of the Arbor.

In autumn, the Arbor transformed into a true paradise. The vines hung heavy under the weight of plump, juicy grapes, shimmering in the mild autumn sun. Aliya loved sitting here and plucking the sweet fruit directly from the vines. She only had to lift her head, and she could grasp the grapes with her mouth, almost as if she were in paradise.

The Arbor had many cushions to sit on, as well as pillows leaning against the walls. In the summer, the whole family would sit here and enjoy delicious chai, mate, or mocha, eat homemade pastries, and listen to the Quranic verses read aloud by her father. On the other side of the garden, where the sun shone the longest, Aliya had planted a small date tree last year. It was a delicate sapling, little more than a thin trunk with a few green leaves poking defiantly out of the dry earth. She had grown it herself, from the pits of the sweet dates she always bought at the market.

Many years would pass before the small date tree would bear its first fruit. She imagined herself one day sitting under the broad shade of her own date tree. The leaves would rustle gently in the breeze as she leaned against the trunk, her eyes half-closed, a small pot of steaming tea beside her, its aroma mingling with the warm air. And in her hand, she would hold sweet and soft, golden-brown dates from her own tree.

When Aliya arrived home, she hurried into the house. Her steps led her straight to the kitchen, where she quickly placed the fruit and vegetables she had bought at the market in the refrigerator. It was important to store everything quickly before the heat could spoil the fresh foods. After washing her hands and face with cold water, she went into the large living room. Her parents and Rais were already waiting there, ready for midday prayers. The room was simple but well-kept. Colourful rugs lay on the floor, and the light of an old oil lamp flickered faintly in one corner.

Aliya took her own prayer rug from the shelf, carefully spread it on the floor, and stood behind it. She felt the silence in the room, a peaceful silence that grew deeper with each breath. Together they bowed their heads in prayer and listened to the familiar words of their father.

After the prayer, her mother beckoned Aliya to come over. "Come, follow me into the kitchen," she said with a smile. Aliya looked questioningly at her mother as she continued.

"Today is a special day. We're expecting guests for tea."

"What kind of guests?" Aliya was surprised, because they usually only welcomed guests on the weekends. They always cooked days in advance, and everything was prepared to welcome them. But today was different. Her mother lowered her gaze, as if considering something, before answering in a low voice: "It will be your future husband. And his parents."

Aliya opened her eyes wide in astonishment and stared at her mother in disbelief.

"What? Who is this man?"

"You don't know him," her mother replied calmly.

"Don't ask too many questions. This isn't the time. Quickly go upstairs to your room and get ready for your big day. I'll prepare everything for the guests."

Aliya ran up the stairs, her footsteps echoing softly in the quiet house. Her room was on the first floor. She had previously shared it with her two sisters, Mariam and Muna. But everything had changed in the last year. Muna had been the first to move out, right after her wedding. Mariam followed just six months later. Now Aliya was left alone in the large room that had once been full of laughter and conversation. It felt strangely quiet, almost empty. The room next door belonged to Rais. Her parents' bedroom was at the other end of the hall.

Aliya collapsed onto her bed, took a deep breath, and tried to collect her thoughts. No, she was neither afraid nor sad, for she knew the tradition by which a man was chosen for the daughters of families.

The man came with his parents to visit the family home of the woman he wanted to marry or whom his family had chosen for him. The daughter of the house served the tea and kept a low profile. This was the first contact between husband and wife. If her father agreed and considered the man a good fit for his daughter, and the man's family also agreed, everything would be prepared for the wedding. Those were the traditions, and she would accept them.

Aliya stood up and went into the small bathroom adjacent to her room. She washed her face and ran her fingers through her hair to comb it. For this special day, she chose her most beautiful abaya. A hint of excitement rose within her, accompanied by a feeling she couldn't quite identify. Joy? Nervousness? Maybe both. She was ready to meet her future husband.

After she finished, she sat by the window, which afforded a wide view of the garden. The flowers, the trees, and the gentle breeze blowing through the open window seemed to calm her. She reached for her Quran, opened it, and began to read a few verses in a whisper. The familiar words gave her comfort, helped her to collect herself and quietly enjoy the moment.

She waited for her mother to call her. Only then would she go downstairs to the living room to join the guests.

There was a soft knock at the door.

"Aliya? Are you ready?"

Aliya jumped up, kissed the Quran gently, and then carefully placed it back in its place. Her fingers touched the precious book with tenderness, as if she wanted to draw some comfort from it before facing reality. She opened the door and stepped out, the tension palpable in her body, but also a strange calm within.

"Yes, Mom. I'm ready," she said, almost whispering the words.