October 17, 2017
AIN AL-ISSA — In a dank and dingy room in a camp for internally displaced persons in northern Syria, a striking woman wearing mascara and a long black chador steps through a broken doorframe.
"I don't believe in the jihad," she says, in perfect English, while lighting a cigarette. "I do not believe in any of these things…. I just married the man that I loved."
Aisha Abdul Gani, 30, is the Syrian wife of a Moroccan man who used to fight with the so-called Islamic State, or ISIS, in the city of Raqqa. These days she is being detained with 15 other women, all married to suspected ISIS fighters, in a special section of the Ain al-Issa camp north of Raqqa city.
Crammed into a small and isolated concrete building with five connected rooms, the black-clad women are separated from other residents of the camp by a large wall. From the outside, their building almost looks joyful, its walls painted a sky blue. Inside, scribbles and graffiti cover the white walls, and most of the small windows are sealed with square metal grills.
The women living here come from Germany, Morocco, Tunisia, Russia and Syria. Some are waiting for the release of their husbands, detained by the Syrian Democratic Forces in prisons outside the camp. Others are widows who are waiting for approval to cross into SDF-held areas of northern Syria.
Many of them fled the embattled city of Raqqa with the start of the SDF campaign against ISIS in June. They ended up in Ain al-Issa after surrendering to the Kurdish-led force or after they were arrested by the group on the outskirts of the city.
Most of the women say they would not return to living under ISIS but hope to go back to their homes one day. Some reject the idea that the so-called caliphate has crumbled and say they would return to the extremist group if they could.
I didn't do anything wrong. I married the man I loved
Pointing to her black chador, Abdul Gani says she never used to dress like this.
"I used to wear a normal headscarf before, but in Raqqa, you were forced to dress like this," she said, adding that when she leaves the camp, she will again dress as she used to.
Abdul Gani, who hails from the city of Homs, says she ended up clad in black in ISIS's former de facto capital after years of trying to escape the war in Syria.
Her first husband was shot dead by government forces during the early protests in Homs province in 2011. For four years after his death, she lived in Damascus, where she taught English in a school. In 2015, she tried to flee to Turkey but was captured by ISIS in Raqqa before she could make it to the border. She said the militant group forbade her from crossing into Turkey because she was a Muslim who belonged in the so-called Islamic State.
It was during her first week living in Raqqa that she met her second husband.
The Moroccan had come to Syria to wage "jihad" against the Syrian government, she said. His cousin had already been living in Raqqa and had encouraged him to come to the militant stronghold by sending him videos of civilians being tortured by loyalists of Syrian President Bashar al-Assad.
"He wanted to liberate Syria from this criminal, but when he came to Raqqa, he saw the other side of the same coin: cruel tortures, barbaric killing, arbitrary decapitations," she said.
The two would eventually get married and grow even more disenchanted with the militant group. They thought about escaping from Raqqa by paying a smuggler, but they could not afford the fees.
The couple found a way out in June, when the SDF launched a wide-scale offensive against ISIS in Raqqa. The two surrendered to the Kurdish-led force, which detained her husband in a prison near Kobane and held her in the Ain al-Issa camp until further notice.
"I didn't do anything wrong. I married the man I loved," she said.
I came for the jihad.
Khadija al-Humri came to Raqqa by choice.
"I came for the jihad, for Sharia and the Islamic State," the 29-year-old Tunisian woman said, roughly four years after leaving her hometown with her first husband.
"I really believed that there was a state where we could live like the Prophet."
But Raqqa was not all it was made out to be. Al-Humri's first husband was killed in battles with the Free Syrian Army, and the widow was transferred to a dormitory were unmarried women wait to be selected by ISIS fighters.
"It was horrible ... I had to get married if I wanted to leave that place," she said.
Her disenchantment would be expounded by the time she remarried. She described rampant drug abuse and a thriving sex trade in a city where people were killed for no reason. She recalled clashes between ISIS fighters and described a group of French ISIS brides who used to abuse Captagon, an amphetamine-based drug nicknamed the "Jihadi Pill."
"My second husband, who was an ISIS fighter, opened my eyes," she said. "He told me that the Islamic State did not exist. We had made a big mistake." The sound of the muezzin from a nearby mosque marks the hour of prayer. Agiar, a slim 22-year-old girl from Hama, calls the women in to pray.
She is notorious among other women in the camp. They say she was a female ISIS fighter who used to teach tae kwon do to young children in an ISIS training camp. Today, she is one of the only women who are eager to return to the Islamic State.
"The Islamic State is not over yet," she says, flipping through the pages of the Koran in her black Abaya. "I want to go back to Raqqa or leave for Russia," she says. She refuses to say anymore.
I do not know what will happen in the future. I have no hope.
Sitting beside her in a corner, Seline, a 23-year-old woman from Aleppo, cradles her baby in her arm.
"My father sold me to an Islamic militant who came to Syria from Malaysia," she explained. She said that she tried to persuade her husband to leave ISIS, and they both tried to escape, but her husband was arrested by the SDF during the Raqqa military offensive before they could get away.
"I do not know what will happen in the future. I have no hope," she said.
"My family is in Istanbul, my husband's family is in Malaysia. I would like to contact them to ask them to adopt my children. It is the best solution for them, so that they can have a life different from mine."
Keep up with the world. Break out of the bubble.
Sign up to our expressly international daily newsletter!
A neo-Nazi has been buried in the former grave of a Jewish musicologist Max Friedlaender – not an oversight, but a deliberate provocation. This is just one more example of antisemitism on the rise in Germany, and society's inability to respond.
Eva Marie Kogel
October 24, 2021
BERLIN — If you want to check the state of your society, there's a simple test: as the U.S. High Commissioner for Germany, John Jay McCloy, said in 1949, the touchstone for a democracy is the well-being of Jews. This litmus test is still relevant today. And it seems Germany would not pass.
Incidents are piling up. Most recently, groups of neo-Nazis from across the country traveled to a church near Berlin for the funeral of a well-known far-right figure. He was buried in the former grave of Jewish musicologist Max Friedlaender, a gravesite chosen deliberately by the right-wing extremists.
The incident at the cemetery
They intentionally chose a Jewish grave as an act of provocation, trying to gain maximum publicity for this act of desecration. And the cemetery authorities at the graveyard in Stahnsdorf fell for it. The church issued an immediate apology, calling it a "terrible mistake" and saying they "must immediately see whether and what we can undo."
There are so many incidents that get little to no media attention.
It's unfathomable that this burial was allowed to take place at all, but now the cemetery authorities need to make a decision quickly about how to put things right. Otherwise, the grave may well become a pilgrimage site for Holocaust deniers and antisemites.
The incident has garnered attention in the international press and it will live long in the memory. Like the case of singer-songwriter Gil Ofarim, who recently claimed he was subjected to antisemitic abuse at a hotel in Leipzig. Details of the crime are still being investigated. But there are so many other incidents that get little to no media attention.
The grave of Jewish musicologist Max Friedlaender
Crimes against Jews are rising
Across all parts of society, antisemitism is on the rise. Until a few years ago, Jewish life was seen as an accepted part of German society. Since the attack on the synagogue in Halle in 2019, the picture has changed: it was a bitter reminder that right-wing terror against Jewish people has a long, unbroken history in Germany.
Stories have abounded about the coronavirus crisis being a Jewish conspiracy; meanwhile, Muslim antisemitism is becoming louder and more forceful. The anti-Israel boycott movement BDS rears its head in every debate on antisemitism, just as left-wing or post-colonial thinking are part of every discussion.
Jewish life needs to be allowed to step out of the shadows.
Since 2015, the number of antisemitic crimes recorded has risen by about a third, to 2,350. But victims only report around 20% of cases. Some choose not to because they've had bad experiences with the police, others because they're afraid of the perpetrators, and still others because they just want to put it behind them. Victims clearly hold out little hope of useful reaction from the state – so crimes go unreported.
And the reality of Jewish life in Germany is a dark one. Sociologists say that Jewish children are living out their "identity under siege." What impact does it have on them when they can only go to nursery under police protection? Or when they hear Holocaust jokes at school?
Germany needs to take its antisemitism seriously
This shows that the country of commemorative services and "stumbling blocks" placed in sidewalks as a memorial to victims of the Nazis has lost its moral compass. To make it point true north again, antisemitism needs to be documented from the perspective of those affected, making it visible to the non-Jewish population. And Jewish life needs to be allowed to step out of the shadows.
That is the first thing. The second is that we need to talk about specifically German forms of antisemitism. For example, the fact that in no other EU country are Jewish people so often confronted about the Israeli government's policies (according to a survey, 41% of German Jews have experienced this, while the EU average is 28%). Projecting the old antisemitism onto the state of Israel offers people a more comfortable target for their arguments.
Our society needs to have more conversations about antisemitism. The test of German democracy, as McCloy called it, starts with taking these concerns seriously and talking about them. We need to have these conversations because it affects all of us. It's about saving our democracy. Before it's too late.
From Your Site Articles
- Mein Kampf And The Nazi Role In Arab Anti-Semitism - Worldcrunch ›
- Anti-Semitism In German Rap, A Loaded Question - Worldcrunch ›
- Why Sweden Has An Antisemitism Problem - Worldcrunch ›
Related Articles Around the Web
Die Welt ("The World") is a German daily founded in Hamburg in 1946, and currently owned by the Axel Springer AG company, Europe's largest publishing house. Now based in Berlin, Die Welt is sold in more than 130 countries. A Sunday edition called Welt am Sonntag has been published since 1948.
Keep up with the world. Break out of the bubble.
Sign up to our expressly international daily newsletter!