The hallways of the Rusafa Central Criminal Court in Baghdad teemed with anxious toddlers on the days their mothers were on trial. Then they vanished again, into the women’s prison, where they have lived for the past year and a half. They sleep on thin mattresses in crowded cells, bored, hungry and often sick. They are the foreign children of the Islamic State.
Among them is Obaida, the two-year-old son of a Chechen woman, Laila Gazieva.
Gazieva was detained in late 2017 while fleeing the Islamic State stronghold of Tal Afar in northern Iraq and convicted six months later for belonging to the militant Islamist group.
On the day Gazieva was sentenced to life in prison, so too were at least a dozen other young women, court records show.
Obaida remains with his mother in a Baghdad women’s jail, according to Russian government records.
About 1,100 children of the Islamic State are caught in the wheels of Iraqi justice, sources with knowledge of the penitentiary system said.
The youngest, like Obaida, stay with their mothers in prison.
At least seven of these children have died because of the poor conditions, according to detainees, embassy records and sources familiar with the prison.
Several hundred older children are being prosecuted for offenses ranging from illegally entering Iraq to fighting for the Islamic State.
About 185 children aged nine to 18 have already been convicted and received sentences from a few months to up to 15 years in juvenile detention in Baghdad, said a spokesman for the judicial council that oversees the Rusafa Central Criminal Court, which is hearing most of the Islamic State cases involving foreigners.
Seventy-seven of those convicted children were girls.
The children are the forgotten victims of the Islamic State, betrayed by the parents who took them to a war zone, groomed from the age of four in the militants’ poisonous ideology and, in many instances, abandoned by the countries they came from for fear they are a future threat.
In about 20 interviews, diplomats, the children’s mothers and sources familiar with their cases and the penitentiary system described the youngsters’ ordeal.
Nadia Rainer Hermann, a German woman in her early 20s, serving a life sentence for belonging to the Islamic State, told reporters that her two-year-old daughter spent her days on a dank mattress in a filthy and cramped cell in the women’s jail.
“I’m afraid every day my daughter might get sick and die,” she said.
The older children were angry and frustrated with their captivity and lashed out at the guards and one another, she said.
Iraqi government officials declined to comment about the foreign women and children in Iraqi custody or about the jail conditions.
Iraq has said previously it wants to help those who are not guilty of any crime to return to their home countries.
Gazieva spoke to reporters in September 2017 when she and her son, an infant at the time, were being held in a camp near Mosul, in northern Iraq.
She hoped that she and Obaida could return to France, where she lived before traveling to Iraq, but she does not hold a French passport.
“I don’t want to stay in this camp or in this country. I’m terrified of what will happen to us,” she said.
Gazieva, then aged 28, was sitting cross-legged on the floor of a large tent next to a small pile of her few remaining belongings, her hands fiddling with her French residence card. On her lap lay Obaida, his small body sweating under the Iraqi sun. He was crying and hungry; Gazieva said she was not producing enough milk to feed him properly.
Dressed in the black clothing favored by followers of the Islamic State, Gazieva was among 1,400 women and children packed into overflowing tents in the dusty encampment. She spoke to her son in Russian, while dozens of young mothers with infants nearby spoke in German, French and Turkish. They sat in clusters, on mounds of blankets. Armed guards walked among the older children.
The Iraqis had no idea what to do with their captives. They presented Iraq and nearly two dozen foreign governments with an unprecedented legal and diplomatic challenge. While there was nothing unusual in men going abroad to fight, this was the first time so many women and children had joined them.
There is no universal law governing repatriations, said Clive Stafford Smith, the founder of Reprieve, a legal charity that campaigns for human rights.
Gazieva said she had ended up in Islamic State territory unwittingly.
Aged 17, she fled separatist violence in Russia’s Chechnya region and settled in France. Then, in 2015, after divorcing her husband — a man who, in her view, was not sufficiently devout — she said she set off on a tour of Turkey with some Russian women she had met in a chat room. She left her three children behind in France, for what she said was a short holiday.
Gazieva said the women convinced her to drive down the coast.
She realized too late that they had entered Syria. She was scared at first, but then grew to like the Islamic State. Within a few months she had married a Chechen Islamic State fighter, “because that’s what you did,” and moved to Iraq.
For a time, at least, life in the so-called caliphate was good, Gazieva said.
Obaida was born in the general hospital of Mosul with the help of Iraqi midwives conscripted by the Islamic State when the Iraqi city was still firmly in its grip. Foreign fighters and their families held elite status in the city. They were given nicer homes — confiscated from Iraqi owners — and better rations and medical care.
“Life here was like in France, except that here I was free to practice my religion in peace,” she said. “My mother didn’t understand. She said I’d changed, but I’m like before, I just wear a niqab,” she said, referring to her face covering.
A few months after Obaida was born, Iraqi and US forces began a campaign to take back Mosul. By then, Gazieva was a widow and living in the northern town of Tal Afar, where she escaped the fighting.
Once again, life was charmed, according to Gazieva and fighters and their families interviewed by reporters. In Tal Afar, the women had chicken coops and friendly neighbors.
“It was a good life, except for the bombings, but when I was a child, there was a war in Chechnya, so I’m used to bombings,” she said.
Things changed in August 2017. Iraqi forces had taken back Mosul and the fighting moved north. Women, children and the remaining Islamic State men fled from Tal Afar through Kurdish-held territory toward the Turkish border. They traveled on foot in groups of 20 or more, describing a harrowing journey that lasted days, walking on roads strewn with body parts, drones buzzing overhead.
They said they had been told by diplomats and friends who had made the trek in the weeks before that the Kurdish Peshmerga fighters would let them cross into Turkey. Instead, they were made to surrender.
After several days in Kurdish custody, Gazieva and her son were transferred with the other women and children to Iraqi federal authorities in Mosul, going from the dusty refugee camp to a detention facility, where they lived in an uncovered prison yard. The captives were taken to Baghdad in late 2017, where they have remained ever since, joined by foreign women and children detained elsewhere in Iraq.
In all, up to 2,000 foreign women and children are in Iraqi custody, said sources with knowledge of the penitentiary system.
Documents from the Rusafa Central Criminal Court show that Gazieva was one of 494 foreign women convicted there between late 2017 and August last year for belonging to or aiding the Islamic State. The women are citizens of more than 18 countries, mainly Turkey, Russia and countries of central Asia. Records from one of the two chambers that are hearing the cases showed that up to 20 women were sentenced to death by hanging for belonging to the Islamic State or participating in its activities.
So far, none of these sentences have been carried out, judicial sources said.
The women’s prison in central Baghdad was not equipped to handle the arrival of so many women and their children. The jail is overcrowded and rife with disease, said inmates, diplomats who have visited the captives and sources familiar with the prison.
Hermann, the German woman who was sentenced to life in prison in August last year, spoke to reporters through the bars of a courthouse holding cell, about 3m by 10m large.
“We sleep 12 to a room smaller than this, not counting the children,” she said.
Hermann was one of six women interviewed.
The majority of the children are still living with their mothers in prison, anxious, idle and traumatized, said diplomats and sources close to the penitentiary system.
They include toddlers, like Obaida, and children as old as 12. There is limited medical attention, and many of the foreign women and children are suffering from a scabies infestation and malnutrition, among other ailments. They did not have enough clothes to keep warm during the winter. Some of the women cut up the abayas, or robes, they wore on arrival, to make hats and socks for their children.
The women sleep on thin mattresses on the floor with a few blankets to share, food is served in meager portions and the guards have on many occasions kept flickering lights on for days at a time, three women told reporters.
Aid agencies are helping the Iraqi government provide essentials for the women and children, including clothes and milk, but funds are limited and foreign governments are barely pitching in.
At least seven young children, including Russians and Azeris, have died in the jail because of the squalid conditions, according to several detainees, two prison guards, people who have visited the prisoners and embassy records.
At least three women have also died, intelligence and diplomatic sources said.
Iraqi government officials declined to comment.
Confirming the identities of the women and children is hard in a maze of conflicting testimony and unreliable paperwork. There were few original documents to work with, because many of the women parted with their identity cards in a pledge of allegiance to the Islamic State. Family ties, nationalities and identities were mostly compiled from interviews with the detainees. In some instances, Iraqi authorities carried out DNA tests.
Some children are tethered to women who are not their mothers. Four women said that they believed it was their duty to look after the children of dead friends or relatives.
Others had taken into their care kidnapped Iraqi children, their fellow prisoners said.
When questioned by authorities, the women identified these children as their own.
During the fight for Mosul, Iraqi security forces found about 90 foreign children wandering the battlefield alone or in the care of strangers. In most cases, the children were identified and many were sent home. However, some were too young or too traumatized to tell aid workers who they were and about a dozen remain, unidentified, in an orphanage in Baghdad.
In September 2017, then-Iraqi prime minister Haider al-Abadi said that his government was “in full communication” with the foreign children’s home countries “to find a way to hand them over.”
However, by January last year, talks had stalled and Iraq began prosecutions, diplomats said.
Children over the age of nine are held criminally responsible under Iraqi law, compared with 11 at a federal level in the US and 14 in Germany. The children’s cases are heard by a juvenile court, where they face three possible charges under Iraq’s counter-terrorism laws: illegally entering Iraq, which carries a maximum one year in detention; membership of the Islamic State, which carries five to seven years; and assisting the Islamic State in carrying out terrorist activities, which can bring up to 15 years.
Some child defendants had joined attacks on Iraqi forces, blown up checkpoints and built explosive devices, said an expert on Iraqi juvenile justice.
Judge Aqeel al-Birmani, a counterterrorism judge who has sentenced some of the children’s parents, told reporters: “Some of them may be young, but they knew what they were doing. They were trained to lie.”
Children under 13 who have not committed violence generally receive sentences of three to six months for illegally entering Iraq. They are then free to return home, in theory. However, in reality, many of them end up staying in Iraqi children’s homes, unwanted by their home countries. Sentences are harsher for older children. German teenager Linda Wenzel, for example, is serving six years in juvenile detention for membership of the Islamic State and illegally entering Iraq.
German officials declined to comment on specific cases.
The Iraqi Ministry of the Interior said it estimates that up to 150 adults and children who are German nationals or might have a claim to German residency are in detention in Iraq.
Social workers worry about the long sentences, particularly for older children who will be moved into adult facilities after they turn 18. There, they fear, any efforts made to rehabilitate the detainees in juvenile facilities will be undone by exposure to violent criminals.
“Children should be detained only as a measure of last resort and for the shortest period necessary,” said Laila Ali, a spokesperson for UNICEF Iraq. “When children are detained, specific measures adapted to their age must be taken to protect them, regardless of the reason for the deprivation of their liberty.”
Fionnuala Ni Aolain, the UN special rapporteur for the protection and promotion of human rights while countering terrorism, said that in terms of international law, reintegration and rehabilitation “the longer we keep them there, the harder that is going to be.”
Across the border in Syria, foreign children of more than a dozen different nationalities have been lingering in camps, while European governments wrangle over their fates.
France on March 15 said it had repatriated several young children from camps in northern Syria.
The children were orphaned or separated from their parents.
For Gazieva, the choices over her son’s future are bleak. As she does not hold a French passport, her son has no claim to French nationality. Russia, the country Gazieva ran away from, might be her son’s only option to leave Iraq.
The Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs did not respond to questions about Gazieva’s case.
It said an operation to evacuate Russian children from Iraq had begun in the autumn of 2017 and Russian officials in Baghdad continued to work to bring home all Russian minors.
The fates of the children of some other nations are less clear.
Turkey accounts for the largest number of foreign children in Iraqi custody, people familiar with the penitentiary system said.
Turkish diplomats are monitoring the health of these children and providing medicines, a Turkish official said.
Efforts are being made to bring home Turkish citizens who are not guilty of any crime, starting with the children, the official said.
Other children are from Azerbaijan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan, with a scattered few from Jordan, Syria, France, Germany and Trinidad and Tobago.
Legal charity Reprieve is involved in the cases of foreign fighters and their families detained in Syria, and to a lesser extent Iraq.
Founder Stafford Smith said countries “have a legal responsibility to their citizens, particularly vulnerable ones like children who are in detention through no fault of their own.”
However, some countries are dragging their feet, according to diplomats and other sources familiar with the cases.
Some children born in Islamic State territory do not have recognized birth certificates, making it difficult to prove their nationality.
Germany, Georgia and France have repatriated some children.
A French official said that such decisions were made case by case, taking into consideration whether the mother wanted to give up her child and whether separation was in the child’s interest.
Tajikistan has said it would take children back soon.
However, some governments have little incentive to bring women and children back. There is little public sympathy for the children of militants.
“It’s a sensitive issue given the public’s reaction,” a Western diplomat in Baghdad said. “We’re discussing returning the children of people responsible for blowing up their cities.”
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