The Man Educating Young ISIS Survivors

Abdul Khaliq was willing to die for a cigarette. The lifelong educator knew that the simple pleasure of inhaling and exhaling tobacco carried a death sentence in Tabqa, a city located in Syria’s Raqqa province. That’s because, at the time, the province was under the control of Islamic State terrorists.

In between his evening cigarettes, Khaliq would engage in an even riskier activity. After sundown, he would give a full English lesson from the state curriculum to two teenage boys in his home. During the three years ISIS ruled Tabqa, until 2017, dozens of boys escaped to take their university entry exams elsewhere in the country. Khaliq risked his life to make sure they were well-prepared.


Supported with $1.5 million from the U.S. State Department, Better Hope for al-Tabqa quickly repaired 14 schools in cities across Raqqa after ISIS was defeated in October 2017.

“Giving a private class is akin to blasphemy in the eyes of ISIS,” says Khaliq, 41. Equally forbidden was leaving Raqqa without permission. Some of Khaliq’s students were beheaded for trying. Khaliq, a soft-spoken man with a short black beard, was aware that he too could be killed at any moment. He lived in constant fear until his town was finally freed in May 2017 by the Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF), a Kurdish-led militia backed by U.S. air cover. The next month, Khaliq and five other activists founded the organization Better Hope for al-Tabqa.

Supported with $1.5 million from the U.S. State Department, the organization quickly repaired 14 schools in cities across Raqqa after ISIS was defeated in October 2017. Weeks later, Khaliq oversaw the opening of an education center in Tabqa, which has lifted up hundreds of children wounded during the war.

Khaliq has a beautiful heart, but there is only so much he can do considering the circumstances.

Mohanad al-Ahmad, longtime friend

Since 2018, only children with a physical disability have been permitted to attend the center. By then, the SDF reopened official schools and instructed families to enroll. Khaliq didn’t protest the decision, but he worried that the SDF saw his organization as a rival authority.

Still, more than 120 children have enrolled. Khaliq sent me a photo of one of the students, a 14-year-old boy named Hussein. He is raising his arm to answer a question; his hand is missing. Both of Hussein’s hands were blown off three years ago when he unknowingly touched a land mine.


Fourteen-year-old Hussein lost both of his hands to a land mine.

Children like Hussein have found a safe place at the center, where students between the ages of 6 and 10 are taught literacy in the morning, before adolescents and teenagers arrive in the afternoon.

Khaliq designed the curriculum to provide psychosocial support. The children are deeply traumatized. That much is clear from the images they draw. Pictures of corpses, guns and bombs are common. But after just weeks of classes, some children begin drawing animals, relatives and friends.

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Khaliq is building on the progress by convincing families that education is important. With most inhabitants in northeast Syria struggling to survive, many children often miss classes in order to help their parents eke out a living. “For some reason children may stop coming, but we often succeed in bringing them back,” Khaliq says.

He also stresses that his students aren’t exposed to political propaganda. That’s rare in a country where education is traditionally used to brainwash children. For decades, schoolchildren have been recruited into state-controlled youth organizations to ensure they become loyal regime supporters. And during ISIS’ short and brutal rule, boys were indoctrinated to become future jihadis. Many were forced to commit unspeakable crimes.

Only now can some children reclaim a semblance of childhood. Khaliq and his team visit internally displaced camps in northeast Syria twice a month to play with the kids. And in October, he created another curriculum designed to teach Arabic and English to 200 displaced children living in Tawhyena, a tented settlement on the outskirts of Tabqa. The curriculum is the backbone to a one-year project that will run until February 2021. “I’m excited,” Khaliq says. “But I just can’t believe it’s the 21st century when I see the way these children are living in the camp.”  


Abdel Khaliq oversaw the opening of an education center in Tabqa that serves hundreds of children wounded during the war.

Khaliq remembers how pleasant life was before the war. In 2005, he began teaching kindergarten, and the government soon recognized him as one of the best teachers in the country. He married and fathered three children. But one night in February 2016, his middle child, Hala, fell ill. She had woken up trembling and dripping from a cold sweat. Fearing for her life, Khaliq rushed her to a clinic, but all the doctors had fled after ISIS seized Raqqa. Two nights later, Khaliq buried his daughter.

“Hala would have been 9 today,” he tells me solemnly. “I blame [ISIS leader] Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi. He didn’t let us flee to reach a doctor.”

Khaliq is committed to helping as many children as possible. His former students revere him for his compassion. Mishaal, an 18-year-old university student who withheld her last name for fear of reprisal from the Syrian regime, recalls taking English classes with Khaliq just days after ISIS was rooted out of Raqqa. “He read poetry to us,” she says. “And I admired how he explained every lesson in a way that everyone could understand.”

“Khaliq has a beautiful heart, but there is only so much he can do considering the circumstances,” adds Mohanad al-Ahmad, his longtime friend and co-founder of Better Hope for al-Tabqa.

The situation in northeast Syria is particularly unstable after U.S troops pulled out in October. The move enabled Turkey to attack the SDF, which it views as a terrorist organization. Fearing a slaughter, the Kurdish leadership struck a deal with the Syrian regime, allowing Bashar Assad’s forces to enter the region for the first time since 2012.

Khaliq fears that the regime could reconquer Raqqa. If that happens, he would flee. His brother has already been captured and jailed in Sednaya, a prison notorious for torturing and killing thousands of civilians. His brother wasn’t even a dissident, merely a low-level government employee who was arrested in 2014 when he went to collect his salary.

Khaliq still copes with the grief of losing his brother and daughter. But like the children of Raqqa, he has found refuge in his school.

Refugees Deserve a Place in Lebanon’s Uprising

Lebanon’s nationwide revolt that erupted last month has spawned street parties, mob attacks and a rare display of solidarity that has defied sectarian lines. Yet despite the resignation of Prime Minister Saad Hariri last week, the revolution won’t be complete until the entire political system changes.

In Lebanon, the system dates to 1943, when Muslim and Christian political elites came together to form the National Pact. The document allocated the office of the president, prime minister and speaker of Parliament to a Maronite Christian, Sunni Muslim and Shiite Muslim, respectively. Seats in Parliament were also distributed along sectarian lines to reflect a faulty demographic census from 1932.  

For decades, the Constitution made Lebanon susceptible to foreign meddling, state paralysis and acute political tension, culminating in the 15-year civil war (1975–1990). The Taif Agreement, which ended the war, restored the fractured political system — with few modifications — as warlords and oligarchs assumed power.

Nearly 30 years later, Lebanese citizens from all religious faiths stand largely united in ushering in a post-sectarian political order: And Palestinian and Syrian refugees are standing behind them.

As one of the biggest victims of Lebanon’s sectarian system, refugees have a legitimate claim to protest, not just as allies, but as people whose fates are at the mercy of the system.  

Lebanon, after all, hosts nearly 1.5 million Palestinian and Syrian refugees combined. It’s a figure that amounts to a quarter of Lebanon’s population and puts the United States and the European Union to shame for how few refugees they have resettled in recent years.

But since the end of Lebanon’s civil war, the political class has scapegoated refugees to distract from its failure to provide basic services, stimulate the economy or mitigate the rampant mismanagement of state funds. And with parliamentary seats distributed equally among Christian and Muslim MPs — as stipulated in the Taif Agreement — politicians have continued to frame Syrians and Palestinians as a demographic threat.

In their view, any effort to improve refugees’ lives could encourage their permanent settlement, thus tipping Lebanon’s delicate sectarian balance in favor of Sunni Muslims.

Politicians have used that argument to justify banning nearly 200,000 Palestinians from working in 25 highly skilled professions, owning property or making basic repairs in the camps. Just consider that, on average, one Palestinian living in Bourj al-Barajneh refugee camp dies each month from getting entangled and electrocuted in a web of dangling high-voltage wires. Such preventable deaths are common in the camps, while employment restrictions also push youths to join militias and gangs.

The situation for Syrians isn’t much better. Most are excluded or exploited in the labor force and face multiple barriers to obtain legal status. And just last month, Human Rights Watch reported that at least 2,731 Syrians were deported between May 21 and August 29 for entering Lebanon through an unofficial border.

Three of the men returned to Syria were reportedly detained by President Bashar Assad’s regime, which is notorious for interrogating, jailing and torturing perceived dissidents.

Yet despite lacking legal status, Syrians have joined demonstrations across the country. Those with legal status have done the same, although they fear they could lose their residency permits for opposing the government.

For a young woman named Maryam, who asked me not to disclose her last name for fear of reprisal, partaking in demonstrations is worth the risk. Since fleeing Syria five years ago, she believes she has a right to protest because she’s suffering from the same issues as her Lebanese counterparts. She also said that it’s a matter of principle to express solidarity with people across the region pushing for change.

“The Lebanese revolution is part of the Arab revolutions, and we have to stick together,” she told me.

For the most part, refugees have been welcomed in the protests, yet some argue that the political system that follows sectarianism should first and foremost benefit Lebanese citizens.

But the simple truth is that ending sectarianism could lead to the removal of crippling legal restrictions against refugees, while also ushering in a government that is genuinely concerned for its citizens. The very absence of sectarianism eliminates the argument that refugees pose a demographic threat and opens the possibility for Palestinians and Syrians to settle in Lebanon if they choose.

Refugees like Majdi Adam, a 44-year-old Palestinian, have long considered Lebanon home. But while he’s contemplated going to the protests, he has elected to stay on the sidelines for now. “More Palestinians want to join, but we’re afraid that Lebanese people will ask us, ‘What is your business here?’” he told me inside the Shatila refugee camp in Beirut.

Palestinians and Syrians also fear that politicians will scapegoat them for instigating demonstrations. Hezbollah’s leader, Hassan Nasrallah, has already accused protesters of receiving foreign support and participating in a wider conspiracy to weaken Lebanon. The irony is striking considering that the Shiite militant group is financed and supported by Iran.

Some Lebanese protesters nonetheless appeared shocked by the accusation, but many Palestinians and Syrians weren’t surprised. As refugees, they have long been framed as a security threat and robbed of their political agency. I only hope that as Lebanon gears up for more protests, refugees are heard and embraced on the streets.