A masked policeman mans a machinegun atop an armoured vehicle outside a Christian church in Mosul July 14, 2009. REUTERS/Khalid al-Mousuly
ishtartv.com - .reuters.com
By Babak
Dehghanpisheh and Michael Georgy |
ALQOSH, Iraq, Tue Oct 18, 2016
Behnam
Abboush won't feel any safer if Iraqi forces drive Islamic State out of their
stronghold of Mosul. That's why he and 300 other Assyrian Christians in the
paramilitary force under his command are taking matters into their own hands.
Abboush
says some members of his community, one of Iraq's many religious and ethnic
minorities, were abandoned to their fate when the jihadists swept through
northern Iraq two years ago.
Now
his fighters are determined to protect Christian towns and villages in the
Mosul region without relying on anyone else, while Iraqi government troops and
other forces launch their offensive to regain the city nearby.
Ancient
minorities have always been an integral part of Iraq's complex social fabric.
Their attitudes toward the government in Baghdad and their re-assimilation into
society after the upheaval caused by Islamic State will test Iraqi leaders'
pledges to deliver stability after the Mosul campaign.
The
Shi'ite-led government has promised that the assault, which started in the
early hours of Monday, will improve security and unite a nation that has been
in turmoil since the U.S.-led invasion in 2003.
But
Abboush's experiences illustrate why so many of the minorities - which range
from the Christians and Yazidis to Turkmens and the Shabak people - have so
little faith in the regional and central governments.
He
recalls the night of Aug. 6, 2014, about two months after the fall of Mosul,
when he said Kurdish forces stationed in the Christian town of Karakosh
suddenly announced they were fleeing.
Many
of the Karakosh's 55,000 people managed to escape before the militants arrived
a few hours later, but Abboush said the abrupt departure of the peshmerga
troops controlled by the Kurdish regional government showed how communities
have to defend themselves.
"They
said to us 'we will protect you'. At half past ten in the evening they said 'we
will go'. It was very difficult, especially for the women and children,"
Abboush, an engineer and former air defense officer under Saddam Hussein, said
at his training base in the town of Alqosh, 50 km (30 miles) from Mosul.
He
is now the general of an Assyrian force that he says received only half the
amount of weapons it needs from authorities and relies heavily on donations
from Iraqi Christians living abroad.
"If
there was a strong central government we would need nothing. If you want to
solve the problem, we must have a protection force," Abboush, an intense,
white-haired man, said shortly before joining his officers for a lunch of
eggplant, stew and rice.
Abboush
prepares his men at an obstacle course on a tiny mountain training ground, only
about 13 km from Islamic State fighters. Their mission is to reassure local
people it is safe to return to their homes in areas cleared of the militants.
SUPPORT
FOR ALL IRAQIS
Others
say the drive for Mosul will benefit Iraqis of all communities. "The whole
idea of this offensive is to get people back to their homes safely, not to
abandon them – Christians, Shi'ites and Sunnis, everyone," said Hoshiyar
Zebari, a top Kurdish official.
Khisro
Goran, a Kurdish member of Iraq's parliament, said lightly-armed peshmerga
forces withdrew from Karakosh in 2014 because they were unprepared for the
Islamic State onslaught. However, he sympathized with Abboush's views.
"I
agree that minorities from Yazidis, Christians or Shabak should have their own
local police to protect their societies and this is the ideal way to resolve a
trust issue," he said.
In
Baghdad, a military spokesman rebuffed Abboush's complaints over a lack of
support from the central government, saying the budget cannot be changed
continuously to accommodate the rising or dwindling numbers of each force lined
up to fight Islamic State - known by its opponents in Arabic as Daesh.
"The
government is keen on providing support to all those who are fighting
Daesh", he said.
Iraq's
Sunni Muslims, the biggest minority, dominated the country until the fall of
Saddam Hussein in 2003. Now Shi'ites are in control, with politicians from the
majority community running the government, its militias ruling many streets.
LONGING
TO BE ACCEPTED
Abboush's
sentiments are echoed at a church in central Erbil, capital of the Kurdish
region which has become increasingly autonomous since Saddam's demise.
At
evening mass, Father Salim Saka told his packed congregation to work with all
communities in Iraq. In private, he conceded those wishes may be unrealistic.
"For
two years the government has been saying they will liberate Mosul. It's just
talk. There can be no harmony. We are not accepted," he said. "We
feel left out."
Outside
the church, beside the candle box, Evaan Khalas, 24, was also skeptical. As a
Christian, he fought alongside the peshmerga for five years against Al Qaeda,
but is no longer among the Kurdish ranks.
"Now
they don't accept me. I wanted to fight with them against Daesh," he said.
"As long as there is Islam we can't live here."
Some
of the worshipers are Christians who fled to Erbil from villages, towns and
cities under Islamic State. One such, Sobhi Abu Fadel, recalled his family's
close escape from Mosul when only about 800 militants seized the city as the
army collapsed.
Standing
beside a statue of the Virgin Mary as church guards checked bags for
explosives, he pulled up a photograph of his mother on his smart phone. She
died aged 90 because of the heat in the car as they fled Islamic State, which
tells Christians to convert or die.
"We
had neighborhood watches but not enough ammunition," he said.
Hundreds
of thousands of Christians have fled Mosul and other cities in recent years in
the face of intimidation, death threats and violence.
The
Yazidis have suffered particular cruelty at the hands of Islamic State, which
regards them as devil worshipers. Hundreds of Yazidis were killed by the
jihadists in 2014 while thousands fled to camps in the Kurdish region. Many
women who could not escape were raped or turned into sex slaves.
These
ordeals have led some Yazidis to the conclusion that they too can depend only
on themselves.
For
example, one Yazidi militia - the YBS or Sinjar Resistance Units - is also only
partially backed by the state even though it is part of the government-funded
Popular Mobilisation Forces, according to its commander Saeed Hassan.
The
fighters are 2,700 strong, yet only 1,000 are getting salaries from Baghdad, he
said.
"An
overwhelming majority of the Yazidis want a self-rule administration under
international protection. We have no trust in the provincial
administration," said Haji Hassan, a civilian member of the YBS
administration. "They have been treating us badly even since before Daesh
took over."
At a
ramshackle camp near a five-star hotel in central Erbil frequented by Western
executives, other Yazidis said they rely on the generosity of local tribes for
supplies such as rice and sugar.
Tables
under a tent serve as a classroom for children twice a week. Young boys use
dirty rags from a plastic water bucket to wipe the floor. Posters of sports
like archery and horse racing remind them of the limitations of life in their
barren camp.
Ali
Khalaf, a camp resident who has occasional work as a laborer, contemplated the
future. "Yazidis are alone. Even if Islamic State is driven out of Mosul,
we want an international force to protect us from genocide," he said.
(Additional
reporting by Maher Chmaytelli and Ahmed Rasheed in Baghdad; editing by David
Stamp)
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