Arthur finds him­self grap­pling with a deep sense of cul­tur­al dis­so­nance in the chap­ter “By the Riv­er Tigris, 1872,” as he nav­i­gates his time among the Yazidis dur­ing their annu­al fes­ti­val, “Çarşe­ma Sor,” or ‘Red Wednes­day.’ The fes­ti­val marks the arrival of spring, a cel­e­bra­tion of renew­al and hope that con­trasts sharply with Arthur’s per­son­al and exter­nal strug­gles. The Yazi­di vil­lagers of Zêrav spend their time paint­ing eggs, clean­ing homes, and mak­ing can­dles from sheep fat, all inte­gral to their cus­toms and tra­di­tions. For Arthur, an Eng­lish­man unfa­mil­iar with these prac­tices, his own cul­tur­al per­spec­tive feels dis­tant. The idea of cel­e­brat­ing a new year dur­ing the dead of win­ter, a time when nature seems to be in hiber­na­tion, is for­eign to him, and the curi­ous chil­dren lis­ten to his expla­na­tion with polite intrigue, unaware of the under­ly­ing dif­fer­ences between their lives and his.

As the fes­tiv­i­ties reach their peak on the sev­enth sun­set, Arthur receives a rare hon­or: an invi­ta­tion to the sheikh’s house, a ges­ture that under­scores his out­sider sta­tus. The sheikh’s home is filled with the scent of rose­mary and sage, sym­bol­ic of warmth and heal­ing, as the vil­lagers pre­pare an array of food. Dur­ing this gath­er­ing, Arthur’s gaze falls upon Leila, a faqra, who begins per­form­ing a tra­di­tion­al div­ina­tion rit­u­al with her daf, a hand drum. As the evening con­tin­ues, Leila falls into a deep trance, her haunt­ing melody tran­scend­ing time and space, cap­tur­ing the atten­tion of all who lis­ten. Yet, as her voice inten­si­fies, so does the tone of the prophe­cy she deliv­ers, one filled with chill­ing fore­warn­ings of death and destruc­tion, pre­dict­ing a mas­sacre that will befall the Yazidis.

Leila’s trance becomes more alarm­ing as she calls out “Fir­man,” a word that not only sig­ni­fies per­mis­sion but eeri­ly sug­gests a license for vio­lence against the Yazi­di peo­ple. As the prophe­cy unfolds, the details become painful­ly spe­cif­ic, fore­telling the destruc­tion of sacred Yazi­di sites and the immi­nent slaugh­ter that will leave no sur­vivors unless they flee to the moun­tains for refuge. In that moment, the once fes­tive atmos­phere shifts into one of fore­bod­ing silence. The chil­dren, who had been glee­ful­ly play­ing, return to their activ­i­ties, bliss­ful­ly unaware of the grave words that have just been spo­ken. Arthur, how­ev­er, is deeply shak­en, the weight of what he has wit­nessed over­whelm­ing him as he strug­gles to com­pre­hend the full depth of the prophe­cy. His mind races as the night grows dark­er, bur­dened with the fear that the Yazidis’ fate has already been sealed by forces beyond their con­trol.

As Arthur lies awake lat­er that night, the rem­nants of ancient Nin­eveh con­tin­ue to haunt his thoughts. The city, rich with his­to­ry and marked by count­less tragedies, serves as a painful reminder of the cycle of vio­lence that has plagued this region for cen­turies. Arthur’s reflec­tions turn inward, and he won­ders whether the Yazidis, much like the ruins of Nin­eveh, are des­tined to be lost to time. The prophe­cy, though spo­ken in the present, car­ries the weight of his­to­ry and seems to echo the suf­fer­ing of those who came before. As he con­tem­plates the inevitabil­i­ty of the destruc­tion, Arthur is forced to grap­ple with his own sense of help­less­ness. He begins to ques­tion whether it would be bet­ter to remain igno­rant, untouched by the hor­rors he now under­stands. As the chap­ter clos­es, the sense of impend­ing change grows stronger, under­scored by the nat­ur­al world around him, which seems to reflect the loom­ing cat­a­stro­phe. The haunt­ing pres­ence of nature, the vil­lage, and the prophe­cy con­verge, sig­nal­ing a pro­found shift in Arthur’s under­stand­ing of both his own role and the fate of the Yazidis.