My search for brothers whose family was massacred by US soldiers in Iraq

Iraq continues to grapple with political and social instability since the 2003 United States-led invasion, and in the six years since Daesh largely left the country. But it's the human cost of the conflict that truly continues to linger.

For me, the Iraq war will forever be associated with the horrors visited upon the Al-Janabi family in the small town of Yusufia (west of Mahmudiyah city and south of Baghdad), three years into the invasion - a story which I came across in the aftermath of the war, which has stayed with me ever since.

A family massacred

On March 12, 2006, four American soldiers (Steven Green, James Barker, Paul Cortez and Jesse Spielman) entered the Al-Janabi family's house and separated 14-year-old Abeer from her parents, Fakhriyah and Qasim, and six-year-old sister, Hadeel.

According to US court documents, Barker and Cortez raped Abeer whilst Green, the alleged ringleader, first shot and killed her parents and younger sister in a different room, then raped Abeer before shooting her multiple times in the head.

The soldiers then doused Abeer's lifeless body in kerosene before setting it alight, hoping to cover up their crimes.

The family was survived by Abeer's younger brothers, Mohammed and Ahmed, aged just 11 and nine years old at the time, both of whom were at school while their family was massacred.

I have questioned why this story has had such a strong hold over me, why my mind rushes to the pixelated picture of Abeer in circulation at the mention of the Iraq war.

Perhaps it was the early lesson in the insidious nature of war, which rids the perpetrators of their own humanity, making it easier for them to dehumanise their victims.

Or the unsettling truth that (maybe) justice isn't truly served when delivered by institutions of the state responsible for the atrocities. I came to this grim realisation when I learned that, under a US judgement, a number of the soldiers responsible for the murders would be eligible for parole after serving only 10 years of their sentence, although this hasn’t happened yet.

The survivors

Beyond these reasons however, my fixation with the story was rooted in a question for which I couldn't find an answer – what happened to the surviving brothers?

And so, in search of an answer, I found myself back in Baghdad last December, a place I had travelled to last in 2018, not long after Daesh reportedly lost territorial control over most of the country (though much of it remained inaccessible). "As I drank a much-needed second coffee after Friday prayers, I pondered how to find two individuals in a province teeming with over eight million people.

Eighteen years is a long time for tragedies to be forgotten, mythicised even. Very few of those who I spoke to in Baghdad had heard of the massacre. All advised against travelling to Mahmudiyah, warning the region remained rife with sectarian violence.

I felt uneasy with the idea of leaving the capital and heading into a region once referred to by the media as the "triangle of death" (for it was plagued with shootings and kidnappings during the war).

And yet, more daunting for myself, was the prospect of returning to the United Kingdom without answers. With that in mind, the following day I wedged myself in the back of an overcrowded minibus and headed south to Mahmudiyah.

Lots of suspicion

The widespread presence of Iraqi military Humvees and army personnel in central Mahmudiyah was a signal not to stay there longer than necessary. I took a rickshaw to Rasheed intersection north of the city and, from there, a 30-minute taxi journey to Yusufia which is around 15km away, being greeted on arrival by an oversized (and intimidating) hoarding of Shia cleric Muqtada al Sadr.

It's an odd thing asking strangers to recall events from almost two decades ago. Understandably I was met with scepticism. Every person I spoke to asked me if I was an American before divulging any information.

I reluctantly countered with "British," expecting that to be met with similar distrust, disdain even. A similar pattern emerged in their responses. People initially struggled to place the Al-Janabi family name, their eyes then widened in recognition upon seeing Abeer's picture but, ultimately, no one could provide any insight into what happened to her brothers – nothing.

Dusk descended over Yusufia and I was keen to return to Baghdad before nightfall. With no taxis in sight, I accepted a lift from a minibus driver bound for Mahmudiyah. I found myself amidst a group of inquisitive passengers, curious to know what business a foreigner had in Yusufia. Endless questions ensued and with each response, a flurry of whispered deliberations between them in Arabic.

I suspected my answers did not land well when the driver ignored my requests to stop at Rasheed intersection and sped onward to Mahmudiyah.

The minibus finally ground to a halt on the edge of Mahmudiyah, outside what looked like a fortified compound. None of my fellow passengers disembarked. Moments later, a group of armed men emerged from the building. Swift and silent exchanges followed between them and the driver, interrupted only by their suspicious glances towards me. I realised then that this stop was the end of the journey for me.

Interrogation and selfies

I hadn't fully processed what just happened when I was being ushered into a room in the back of the compound.

I watched as my passport was passed around, bemused at the sight of its holders attempting to decipher the stamps. My wallet was emptied, its contents splayed out on the table and every item forensically photographed.

Hours of interrogation passed and when it became clear that I had no intention of stopping my search, the leader of the group eventually said that the brothers had moved away from the province long ago and could not be contacted. He demanded that I cease and desist.

His patience had clearly worn thin and his words carried the weight of a warning which, in that moment, I decided not to test. I was instructed to return to Baghdad immediately and not to return. Disheartened, I gathered my belongings ready to leave, but not before reluctantly and confusingly complying with a final request by certain members of the group - selfies(!) – a bizarre footnote to a surreal encounter.

Returning to Yusufia the next day, I was reprimanded by the police and told that the brothers could only be contacted by obtaining government permits; a process which could take weeks, if not months.

Dejected after a local contact (Muhammad Qasim Abdullah) who had been helping me with my search was threatened by the army, and told under no circumstances was I to locate the brothers, I turned to a local journalist who I contacted through Facebook. He was renowned for hurling his shoes at former US President George W. Bush during a press conference in 2008 .

Munthadar Al Zaidi started calling one number after another, before discovering his cousin, Mohammed Rashid, knew of the brothers, and confirmed that both were alive and residing in the province.

The next day we headed to Latifiya, a town south of Mahmudiyah, infamous for being the location where British hostage Ken Bigly was reportedly executed. Concerned the journey could end in detention again, anxiety was setting in as we neared our destination, with moments of respite provided only by the sight of those in prostration performing daily prayers along the highway.

The car eventually closed in on a group of men outside a house, clearly anticipating our arrival. Pleasantries were brisk as Rashid quickly directed everyone indoors and out of sight. As our hosts instructed us to be seated in the living room, three sat directly opposite me.

One visibly older, the other two bearing the hallmarks of (fading) youth and adulthood. Rashid requested one of them to provide his identity card and handed it to me. His full name was written in Arabic: "Ahmed Qasim Hamza Al-Janabi." His mother's name: "Fakhriya." The search was over.

Found but forgotten

I had been so consumed with finding the brothers that I was not prepared for this. I decided against arriving with a list of questions to avoid looking opportunistic. The two men stared at me silently, but I could not meet their eyes. Instead, I looked at the ground and offered my condolences.

It sounded absurd - for the enormity of their loss rendered all apologies meaningless. In their own words, they lost what was dearest to them: "honour, a father, a mother and their home."

In the aftermath of the massacre, the brothers were taken in by their paternal uncle, Abu Fouad, the elderly man who sat opposite me. Unable to cope with the trauma and burdening costs, they dropped out of school two years later.

They were not surprised to learn that the police, the army and the armed group I was delivered to did not want them found. At the time of the massacre, there were unfounded allegations against their father, claiming he was a terrorist. The authorities exploited these claims to not only harass the brothers but obstruct them from seeking restitution.

In desperation, the brothers resorted to paying $300 to them to bring an end to the harassment. To date, they have not received any compensation from the US or Iraqi governments.

The brothers were not aware if any of the soldiers were granted parole, but remained firm in their view that they deserved the death penalty. In what may be considered as the ultimate poetic justice, Green died by his own hands while incarcerated in 2014.

When asked if they had any message for the US, the brothers shook their heads before expressing their gratitude to Justin Watt. He was the infantryman turned whistle-blower who, at great personal risk, revealed the crimes committed by his fellow soldiers. In messages exchanged with Justin after my meeting with the brothers, he confirmed that none of the soldiers have been granted parole as of yet.

Dreams deferred

Like so many Iraqis, Mohammed and Ahmed Al-Janabi dreamed of leaving the country and resettling elsewhere in the aftermath of the war. Somewhere safe, where they would be able to live freely and in dignity. The fruition of that dream, however remote, seemed (to me) to be the last vestige of hope for them to regain some semblance of normality.

I redirected the discussion to that fateful day in 2006, specifically enquiring why Abeer didn't attend school like her brothers. Abu Fouad explained that Abeer's parents were concerned with the attention she was receiving from American soldiers stationed at a checkpoint enroute to school and so they chose to withdraw her, understandably prioritising her safety over her education.

I couldn't shake the thought that perhaps their well-intentioned decision tragically and inadvertently sealed the family's fate.

The US invasion of Iraq and subsequent war was an inflection point for many, myself included. A seminal lesson in the ability of powerful state actors to dictate the rules of war and flout them with impunity.

But amid all the discourse surrounding the war in the years which followed, its true tragedy lies in the reduction of the Iraqi narrative to casualty figures – a statistic. One which has the power to overshadow the profound human toll and suffering as well as the devastating impact on survivors like Mohammed and Ahmed.