The cave was dark and filled with smoke, the smell of burning logs and sweating bodies. A big black pot balanced on the soil in the corner and one side was occupied by dirty blankets stacked on top of a bundle of chopped wood. My voice, rising above the rest inside, I chanted, while moving pebbles on the ground and scribed tables in the dust.

“Six-by-thirteen?”

“Seventy-eight!” The girls sang softly in a chorus.

I stood at the center of the group of girls and nodded in acceptance.

“Two hundred and twenty-three by three?”

The girl watching the entrance coughed suddenly and quickly went into position. The rest of the girls followed suit. A few of them stayed behind and helped me kick the pebbles away and clear the ground of any inscriptions. Our bare feet vigorously rubbed the ground, as we also rushed into position. Then silence.

A young guard stood with his machine-gun, erect near the exit, letting rays of sunlight in. He stared straight at the constellation of pebbles on the ground and the partially erased sums. I shifted a bit, trying to hide behind the taller girls, as their attention was stolen by the Mumin, a dark, stout elderly woman.

Mine was on the sun’s rays that shone inside the face of the cave, as the breeze blew softly on the shredded tarp. Patches of light danced at the foot of the entrance. Straight down my row was a single brown mask of scarred faces, inside and out. Their heads bent and their beauty concealed behind head scarves that covered their hair and ears. A coarse voice delivered me back to reality.

“Nadia!” The Mumin snapped with impatience, “Listen, this is very important.”

I did not listen though. I continued to stare at the ground. I already knew she was here to do either one of two things. One: dictate the Quran and indoctrinate us with ‘pleasures’ of being El Baghdadi’s subjects and our part in the fight against modern slavery. Or two: do her routine check, where she would segregate us from tall to short, plump to skinniest and leave with a handful. But this time it was different, I was inspected separately and thoroughly. “You must be proud; you are now the Emir’s wife.” She said with a ting of delight in her voice. “Tonight, you will be taken to your new quarters, and presented to the Caliph.”

As my head was exploding, my temperature gradually rising and my chest grinding razors, I stared at the dried crevasses on her forehead.

I am just fifteen, I thought. I am not ready to be someone’s wife, let alone a terrorist’s.

“So then,” she continued, “I will send someone to help with your preparations.”

Immediately after she walked out, all the girls gave a sigh of relief and circled around me with a barrage of questions.

“How are you feeling?”

“Are you alright?”

I just wanted them to leave me alone.

“Let us pray for our sister,” one of them declared.

***

Tell us: What would you do in Nadia’s situation?