Habib gazed vacantly at the passers-by. At seven in the morning, the prisoners’ camp was bustling. A group of fighters were distributing ammunition from wooden crates to a ragged collection of fighters. He sat on a stone, under the gnarled branches of an ancient olive tree. He wondered whether it had seen as much violence in its long life as he had seen in the three years since he had been fighting in Syria. His sprawled legs were two matchsticks jutting out of a matchstick man, held loosely by a frail layer of glue. He could fall into pieces at any moment. He wore the camouflage fatigues that he had been issued with from the Caliphate. His dark skin peeped from beneath a thousand holes and the hems were frayed to slender, dirty ribbons. The pride that he and his fellow fighters had felt when they wore the new uniforms lingered distantly in his mind as a hollow, bitter thought.
A couple of Freedom Fighters, armed with American-built M4s dragged a new captive to the hospital tent. He wore a crusty armour of caked dust and congealed blood that concealed his military fatigues. As Habib’s eyes crossed the captive’s, he was met by a cold, Godless emptiness.
Habib sighed and scratched a red, sore arm with filthy, jagged fingernails, trying to relieve himself of the lice that tortured him day and night. His thoughts lingered back three years – to the comfortable life of a university student that he had led in Bristol. He yearned to hear the voices of his beloved parents, whom he had not heard since he had run away to Syria. He had been arrogant… and a fool. He had seen himself as a hero – a new Saladdin. Tears of shame streaked his dirty cheeks.
At twenty-two, he had witnessed unspeakable deeds. He had cut the throats of helpless prisoners, to live up to the warped expectations of his companions. Ruthlessness had been a prized virtue amongst the fighters. The Caliphate had been no place for squeamishness – weakness. Weaklings were cannon fodder; lambs to the slaughter.
The roar of a jet made Habib to duck instinctively and cover his head with both hands. American and Russian planes struck fear into the most valiant of hearts. Thankfully, the jet sped towards the nearby Turkish border to hide behind the thin line of hazy hills that framed the horizon. Habib crouched forward and buried his face in his callused hands when he felt a sharp jab at his side and found himself sprawling in the dust.
‘Out of the way, swine,’ said fighter who had kicked him. He spat at him before he shuffled towards his companions who strutted by a newly-acquired Toyota pick-up.
Habib gripped the nearby trunk and dragged himself up. The sun’s blaze was rising steadily. He hobbled towards the small, overcrowded hut where he slept amidst a leprous mass of unwashed, maimed bodies. He had lost everything – his family; his life; his soul.
A couple of Freedom Fighters, armed with American-built M4s dragged a new captive to the hospital tent. He wore a crusty armour of caked dust and congealed blood that concealed his military fatigues. As Habib’s eyes crossed the captive’s, he was met by a cold, Godless emptiness.
Habib sighed and scratched a red, sore arm with filthy, jagged fingernails, trying to relieve himself of the lice that tortured him day and night. His thoughts lingered back three years – to the comfortable life of a university student that he had led in Bristol. He yearned to hear the voices of his beloved parents, whom he had not heard since he had run away to Syria. He had been arrogant… and a fool. He had seen himself as a hero – a new Saladdin. Tears of shame streaked his dirty cheeks.
At twenty-two, he had witnessed unspeakable deeds. He had cut the throats of helpless prisoners, to live up to the warped expectations of his companions. Ruthlessness had been a prized virtue amongst the fighters. The Caliphate had been no place for squeamishness – weakness. Weaklings were cannon fodder; lambs to the slaughter.
The roar of a jet made Habib to duck instinctively and cover his head with both hands. American and Russian planes struck fear into the most valiant of hearts. Thankfully, the jet sped towards the nearby Turkish border to hide behind the thin line of hazy hills that framed the horizon. Habib crouched forward and buried his face in his callused hands when he felt a sharp jab at his side and found himself sprawling in the dust.
‘Out of the way, swine,’ said fighter who had kicked him. He spat at him before he shuffled towards his companions who strutted by a newly-acquired Toyota pick-up.
Habib gripped the nearby trunk and dragged himself up. The sun’s blaze was rising steadily. He hobbled towards the small, overcrowded hut where he slept amidst a leprous mass of unwashed, maimed bodies. He had lost everything – his family; his life; his soul.