The Terrorist Factory by Father Patrick Desbois

Author:Father Patrick Desbois
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Arcade Publishing
Published: 2018-05-13T16:00:00+00:00

9 In the Hindu religion, Kali is the goddess of preservation, transformation, and destruction.

10 A mild alcohol.

11 The Sh’ma, consisting of three excerpts from the Torah, is the main text of Jewish liturgy.

12 A sex slave.

NOT PRETTY ENOUGH

August 8, 2015—Kadia camp

The days go by, all seeming pretty much the same. Mornings going to the camps, returning late, our ears filled with stories of atrocities, our hearts and minds racked by the suffering of these men and women we’re growing attached to. The scorching sun, tireless and never late for the rendezvous as we labor on in the stifling heat.

The car slows down. Zaher and Subhi, the head of our security team, roll down their windows to call to some old men wearing red-and-white turbans. A gust of suffocating dry heat invades the car.

What’s going on?” I ask.

“We’re looking for a family,” replies Zaher.

The motor growls, the dust swirls again, and we drive up to Trailer D35, second alley on the left at the top.

Conducting interviews in the trailers is bothering me more and more. I know that inside I’ll find a whole family sitting there, fifteen people sometimes, whom I’ll have to ask to leave, in spite of the heat, because a survivor, most likely a woman, can’t relate the humiliations she has been subjected to in front of her family. On top of the horror, there would be added shame and maybe expulsion. The summer heat magnifies my discomfort. The family always agrees to find another place to shelter from the sun during the interview, all of them aware of the necessity for their absence so that their daughter, their son, or their grandmother can bear witness, and all convinced of the absolute necessity of this testimony.

Zaher, who is leading the group, points out a young girl leaning against the door frame: “That’s her!” She’s small, with large, dark eyes, black hair tied back, and a strikingly hard face that looks almost as if it were carved out of stone. Her skin bears the scars of a childhood spent outdoors under the punishing sky of Iraq, but I also discern the signs of unspeakable pain. The rest of the family sits in the little bit of shade provided by the trailer beneath a sun that’s already high in the sky. Zaher loses his composure, which is rare, and whispers, “There’s no electricity!” That happens often. No electricity, no ventilation, 120 degrees in the trailer. Up till now, we’ve been pretty much spared this problem, which is apparently frequent in such remote places. The refugee camps aren’t as well equipped as the ISIS training camps.

Our guards signal us not to stay out in the broiling sun but to get into our air-conditioned cars. Recalling my three years in Burkina Faso, in what was known at the time as Upper Volta, I call out to Zaher and Valy: “We have to find a generator. I’m sure there must be a family that owns one. Ask them if they’ll agree to rent it to us.

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