Inside Syria’s jail for IS suspects as officials say attacks by group are rising

In the complex mosaic of the new Syria, the old war against the group calling itself the Islamic State (IS) continues in the Kurdish-controlled northeast. This is a conflict that has faded from the headlines along with larger wars elsewhere.

But Kurdish counter-terrorism officials told the BBC that ISIS cells in Syria have regrouped and stepped up their attacks.

Walid Abdul-Basit Sheikh Mousa was obsessed with motorcycles and finally managed to buy one in January.

The 21-year-old only had a few weeks to enjoy it. He was killed while fighting against ISIS in northeastern Syria in February.

Walid was so eager to fight extremists that, at the age of 15, he ran away from home and joined the Kurdish-led Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF). They brought him back because he was a minor, but they accepted him three years later.

Generations of his extended family gathered in the garden of their house in Qamishli and talked about his short life.

“I see him everywhere,” said his mother, Rojin Muhammed. “He left me with so many memories. He was so caring and compassionate.”

Walid was one of eight children and the youngest of the boys. He could always pass by his mother.

“When he wanted something, he would come and kiss me,” she recalls. “And ‘can you give me money to buy cigarettes?’ say.”

The young warrior was killed near a strategic dam during days of fighting; His body was found by his cousin who was searching the front lines. Her mother tearfully calls for revenge against ISIS.

“They broke our hearts,” he says. “We buried so many of our young people. May ISIS be completely destroyed,” he says. “I hope not one of them is left.”

Instead, the Islamic State Group is recruiting and reorganizing, according to Kurdish officials, taking advantage of the security vacuum created after the ouster of Syria’s long-time dictator Bashar al-Assad last December.

“There has been a 10-fold increase in their attacks,” says Siyamend Ali, spokesman for the People’s Protection Units (YPG), the Kurdish militia that has been fighting against ISIS for more than a decade and forms the backbone of the SDF.

“They took advantage of the chaos and took a lot of weapons from the warehouses and warehouses (of the old regime).”

He says the militants have expanded their areas of operation and attack methods. They progressed from hit-and-run operations to attacking checkpoints and planting mines.

The walls of his office are full of photos of YPG members killed by ISIS.

For the United States, the YPG militia is a valuable ally in the fight against extremists. For Türkiye, this is a terrorist organization.

According to Mr. Ali, 30 YPG fighters were killed and 95 ISIS militants were captured in operations against ISIS last year.

Kurdish authorities have their hands and prisons full of suspected ISIS fighters. Nearly 8,000 people from 48 countries including Britain, the US, Russia and Australia have been held in a network of prisons in the north-east for years.

Regardless of their guilt or innocence, they were not tried or convicted.

The largest prison housing ISIS suspects is located in Al Sinai in the city of Hasakah, surrounded by high walls and watchtowers.

Through a small hatch in a cell door, we get a glimpse of the men who once brought terror to nearly a third of Syria and Iraq.

Prisoners in brown uniforms – their heads shaved – sit silent and motionless on thin mattresses on opposite sides of the cell. They look weak, weak and defeated, like the “caliphate” they declared in 2014. Prison officials say the men were with ISIS until its last stand in the Syrian town of Baghouz in March 2019.

Some detainees wear disposable masks to prevent the spread of infection. Tuberculosis is their companion in Sinai, where they are held indefinitely.

There is no television or radio, no internet or telephone, and no information that Assad was overthrown by former Islamist militant Ahmed al-Shara. At least that’s what prison officials hope.

But ISIS is rebuilding itself behind bars, according to a prison commander who cannot be identified for security reasons. He says that in each wing of the prison there is an emir or leader who issues fatwas regarding Islamic law.

“Leaders still have influence,” he said. “And give orders and give lessons in the law.”

One of the detainees, Hamza Pervez from London, agreed to speak to us while guards listened.

The former trainee accountant admitted he became an ISIS fighter in early 2014, when he was 21. This cost him his citizenship. When asked about ISIS’s atrocities, including beheadings, he says a lot of “unfortunate” things have happened.

“There were a lot of things I didn’t agree with,” he said. “And there were some things I participated in. I wasn’t responsible. I was just a regular soldier.”

He says his life is now at risk. “I’m on my deathbed… in a room full of tuberculosis,” he said. “I could die at any moment.”

After years in prison, Parvez is begging to be returned to England.

“We do not want any harm to come to me and any other British nationals in prison here,” he said. “We did what we did, yes. We came. We joined the Islamic State. It’s not something we can hide.”

I ask how people can accept that he is no longer a threat.

“They’ll have to take my word for it,” he says, laughing.

“That’s something I can’t convince people about. It’s a big risk they have to take to bring us back. It’s true.”

The UK, like many countries, is in no rush to do this.

Thus, the fighters and approximately 34,000 of their family members remained in Kurdish hands.

Their wives and children are arbitrarily detained in sprawling, desolate tent camps that amount to open-air prisons. Human rights groups say this amounts to collective punishment, a war crime.

Roj camp is located on the edge of the wind-whipped and sun-scorched Syrian desert.

It’s a place Londoner Mehak Aslam wants to escape from. He comes to the principal’s office to meet us; a lightly veiled figure, wearing a face mask and walking with a limp. He says he was beaten and injured by a bullet fragment by Kurdish forces years ago.

After accepting the interview, he speaks at length.

Aslam says that she and her Bengali husband, Shahan Chaudhary, came to Syria only “to bring aid” and that they made a living by “baking cakes”. He is currently in Al Sinai prison and both of their citizenships have been revoked.

The mother of four denies joining ISIS, but admits that she brought her children to ISIS territory, where her eldest daughter died in an explosion.

“I lost it in Baghouz. It was an RPG [rocket-propelled grenade] or a small bomb. He broke his leg and was pierced by shrapnel in his back. “He died in my arms,” ​​he says in a low voice.

She told me that her children in the camp, including her youngest, who is eight, have health problems. However, he admits that he turned down the offer to extradite them to England. He says they don’t want to go without him.

“Unfortunately, my children practically grew up in the camp,” he said. “They don’t know the world outside. Two of my children were born in Syria, they have never seen England and it would be very difficult to move in with family they don’t know. No mother should have to choose to be separated from her children.”

But I explained to him that he had made other choices, such as coming to the caliphate where ISIS was killing civilians, raping and enslaving Yazidi women, and throwing people off buildings.

“At the time, I wasn’t aware of the Yazidi incident or people being thrown out of buildings. We didn’t witness any of that. We knew it was very extreme.”

He said he was at risk in the camp because it was known he wanted to return to England.

“I’ve already been targeted as an apostate, and it’s in my community as well. My children have had rocks thrown at them at school.”

I asked him if he wanted to see the return of the ISIS caliphate.

“Sometimes things get distorted,” he said. “I don’t believe what we saw is a true representation of Islam.”

After an hour-long meeting, he returned to his tent with no signs of leaving the camp.

Camp manager Hikmiya Ibrahim says there are nine British families in Roj, including 12 children. He also adds that 75 percent of those in the camp still adhere to ISIS ideology.

There are worse places than Roj.

The atmosphere is much more tense at Al Hol, a more radical camp where about 6,000 foreigners are held.

We were given an armed escort to enter their section of the camp.

As we cautiously entered, the sound of impact echoed throughout the area. The guards said it was a sign from outsiders and warned us that we might be attacked.

In a short time, veiled women dressed in black from head to toe gathered. One of them answered my questions by running his finger along his neck as if he were slitting his throat.

A few small children raised their index fingers; this was a gesture traditionally associated with Muslim prayer but hijacked by ISIS. We kept our visit short.

SDF patrols outside and around the camp.

We joined them, walking along the desert roads.

“Sleeper cells are everywhere,” one of the commanders said.

He added that in recent months they had focused on getting the boys out of the camp and were “trying to free the offspring of the caliphate.” Most attempts are blocked, but not all.

A new generation is being raised – inside barbed wire – who has inherited the brutal legacy of ISIS.

“We are worried about the children,” said Hekmiya Ibrahim in the Roj camp.

“We feel sad when we see them growing up in this swamp and adopting this ideology.”

He believes that they will be much stricter than their fathers due to their brainwashing at an early age.

“These are the seeds of the new version of ISIS,” he said. “Even stronger than the last one.”

Additional reporting by Wietske Burema, Göktay Koraltan and Fahad Fattah