Originally posted by the Voice of America.
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Life Under Islamic State: Escape From Raqqa

by Heather Murdock

   AIN ISSA, SYRIA --

   On Wednesday, 20-year-old Yazan Abdulrahman was released from detention
   after a 10-day investigation, cleared from any suspicion he fought with
   Islamic State militants. A few hours later, relaxed and smiling easily,
   he sat on dirty mattresses in a tent with his neighbors from Raqqa.
   Yazan then told VOA how he lost his family in an airstrike, escaped
   from IS and got a modicum of revenge on the militants that destroyed
   his city. He told his story in Arabic, and it is edited for clarity.
   Before Daesh, we used to hang out in the gardens. We smoked nargila and
   played football. After they came, you couldn't go out. It didn't feel
   safe.

   I call IS militants Daesh because they hated it. We first heard the
   term about a year ago on television. It sounded funny and it made them
   furious. We would whisper the word, but there were spies everywhere.
   The punishment was 180 lashes.

   When I was in 11th grade, the schools closed so I got a job in a phone
   shop. Militants used to come into the store for help installing apps
   like Whatsapp. They looked terrifying with their long beards -- like
   they had not showered in years.

   iPhones and Android phones were banned from the beginning. They didn't
   want anyone to have GPS signals on their phones. Last summer, Daesh
   banned all mobile phones and I lost my job.

   After that I just stayed in the house until Oct. 3 this year. We saw a
   Daesh fighter climb onto the roof with an RPG [rocket-propelled
   grenade]. I heard the explosion and I remember seeing the room as I
   flew in the air, and then it was black. When I opened my eyes, all I
   could smell was smoke. An airstrike had hit the Daesh fighter on the
   roof.

   My eyes were burnt and bloody, my hair was burnt and my leg was
   injured. My mother, my father and one of my brothers were dead.
   Twenty-three people were killed in the house that day, and in the house
   next door, the same explosion killed about 25.

   A man who lived near by took me in and cared for me for a day and a
   half before I went back to find the bodies. When I got there, I saw
   destroyed houses had all been lit on fire and a Daesh fighter was
   guarding the charred rubble. I told him I was there to find the bodies
   of my family.

   He said: "No, go out from here."
   Escape
   From there, I went to a neighbor's house and after about a week and a
   half, Daesh was rounding up civilians to use as human shields. We all
   hid in the bathroom and locked the door.

   Suddenly, someone knocked. I don't know what time it was. We were all
   terrified.

   It was Abu Hussien, a local drug store owner whose shop had been burned
   down. He told us Daesh was gone. We filed out of the house one by one,
   careful to stay in a line so that only the person in the front would be
   killed if we crossed a landmine.

   We heard a voice say "Hey!" and we all froze. We thought it was Daesh
   and we craned our bodies to get a better look.

   [You see, only a week before we had tried to flee. We were caught by a
   slim woman -- veiled from head to toe -- carrying a machine gun. "Go
   back!" she barked in a Moroccan dialect. We went back.]

   "What is your name," I asked the man.

   "My name is Abdulrahman Soyha," he said.

   I knew the name. My father had bought a car from his cousin, a
   well-known salesman. It was safe.

   He told us to follow him to the Syrian Democratic Forces. From there,
   they brought us to this camp where I was arrested with other young men,
   and along with escaped Daesh fighters. I was terrified they would make
   a mistake. What if I looked like a Daesh on their list? What if one had
   my same name?

   Prison

   Civilian prisoners and the guys they thought were the real Daesh
   prisoners were held in separate rooms. We only saw them in a holding
   area while we were waiting to be interrogated.

   They would make fun of the Daesh guys, and their Jihad "names." One
   fighter referred to himself as Abu Dejana. The Syrian Democratic Forces
   called him Abu Dejaja -- father of a female chicken.

   Before one interrogation I saw the Daesh who was guarding my house
   after it was destroyed and burned. He denied being there, but I knew
   exactly who he was.

   "Yes, I worked for the Caliphate State for one year and eight months,"
   he said, sounding proud. He was fat. They were eating fried chicken and
   rice while we were starving.

   I couldn't help myself and I attacked, pounding him with my fists until
   security forces pulled me off of him, saying, "There is no fighting
   here."

   It was misery for me. My family was dead and they burned their bodies.
   They wouldn't let me bury them. It was too much.

   No, I didn't hurt him. I only got in two punches.