من يوافقني الرأي ... إن موضوع ذهاب 11 طالب وطالبة الى داعيش ماهي إلا لعبة مخابراتية

Quote: How a WhatsApp message told British ‎families their children had entered Syria At least nine young British citizens with Sudanese roots crossed into Syria ‎last week, sparking a desperate attempt by their parents to get them home The Abdulqadir family received the grim news through a WhatsApp ‎message from one sister to another, with a grinning selfie attached. “Don’t ‎worry about us, we’ve reached Turkey and are on our way to volunteer ‎helping wounded Syrian people,” medical student Lena Maumoon ‎Abdulqadir wrote. She looked happy and relaxed.‎ The brief, cheery message arrived on 13 March, just hours before the 19-‎year-old crossed the border. Lena’s terrified sibling showed it to their ‎parents and within hours the girl’s father was on a plane to Turkey himself. ‎Maumoon Abdulqadir was convinced that his daughter had gone to join a ‎jihadi group – and was determined to bring her back.‎ Lena was born in Northallerton, North Yorkshire, the daughter of two ‎doctors with Sudanese roots. She had decided to follow in their footsteps, ‎and selected Khartoum medical school for her studies, encouraged by ‎parents who were keen for her to reconnect with their culture. She stayed ‎with her grandmother and the last time her father saw her, for dinner ‎together in the Sudanese capital, she seemed happy with her progress in the ‎long slog to become a doctor.‎ If she had simply wanted to help the ill and needy, her father told ‎Turkey’s BirGün Daily, there were plenty of people in desperate need of ‎help in Sudan and closer to home. Before he left to look for Lena, though, ‎Abdulqadir passed word to other families within the British-Sudanese ‎community, which includes thousands of households across most parts of ‎the UK and is perhaps the oldest, best established in the west.‎ It soon became clear that the tragedy was not confined to one family; ‎around a dozen classmates had left together. Most of the group who made ‎the illegal, risky journey into Syria are British citizens with Sudanese roots – ‎four women and five men. Two or three Sudanese medics also travelled with ‎them, but would probably have needed visas to enter Turkey, suggesting the ‎trip was not an impulse decision but a carefully planned operation that had ‎been concealed in well-judged fear of parental disapproval.‎ After other parents frantically tried and failed to reach their sons and ‎daughters who should have been in Sudan, they also booked tickets to the ‎Turkish border. “We have decided not to return home unless we go with ‎them,” Abdulqadir told the Spanish news agency Efe. “We sent our children ‎to study [in Sudan] so that they would be surrounded by their culture. But ‎their decision to go to Syria has been a shock for all of us.”‎ The families have said they do not want to speak to the UK media, but it has ‎been possible to piece together their children’s journey and their efforts to ‎find them through interviews with Mehmet Ali Ediboglu, a Turkish ‎politician helping to organise efforts to bring them home, and what the ‎parents have said to the Turkish and Spanish media.‎ There are now at least seven mothers and fathers living near the wire fences ‎of the Turkish-Syrian border where, despite western pressure on Turkey to ‎strengthen border controls, smugglers still ply a thriving trade.‎ Pictures show a grave-looking group of men and women, faces drawn with ‎weariness and worry. In one they hold up photos of the missing young men ‎and women. Three of the doctors who had recently finished school grin ‎broadly out of pictures wearing the caps and gowns of their achievements; ‎the others are a mixture of serious closeups and Lena’s smiling portrait by a ‎river, wearing a bright red headscarf. It will be her 20th birthday in less than ‎a month.‎ The young medics have been both reassuring and tantalising to their ‎parents, with regular messages that assure them the whole group is well but ‎never reveal where they are.‎ Those searching for them think they are probably not far inside the border ‎zone, working at one of the medical facilities that have sprung up on Syria’s ‎fringes.‎ ‎“There are temporary volunteer doctors working at these border hospitals. ‎We assume that these kids are volunteering at those hospitals,” said ‎Ediboglu, who in addition to his political role is former head of a local ‎medical association, so has contacts across the border.‎ Maumoon Abdulqadir contacted Ediboglu the day after his daughter ‎vanished. The opposition politician has also helped several Turkish and ‎foreign families to try to track down children who have slipped into Syria ‎with plans to join jihadi groups, and has written two books about the border.‎ He finally met with the relatives on 19 March in Gaziantep, a town famous ‎for its Baklava sweets that has become a base for Syrian exiles and refugees, ‎and a centre for intrigue.‎ They quickly pieced together the details of a trip that began at Khartoum ‎airport in the small hours of 12 March. The group boarded Turkish Airlines ‎flight 681, which leaves for Istanbul at 3.20am and arrives about three ‎hours later.‎ After the overnight flight, they took a long bus journey overland – the route ‎usually favoured by would-be jihadis to avoid both the cost and possible ‎scrutiny of an onward flight.‎ That drive would have taken the best part of 24 hours, with the exact time ‎depending on where they aimed to cross over the porous border. Lena sent ‎her fateful message from the bus, and then all of them vanished. Now the ‎parents can do little except wait.‎