BY QUENTIN SOMMERVILLE
In Syria’s Deir Ezzor province, in the village of Soussa, I held the end of the Islamic State’s empire in the palm of my hand. It was in Hajin, on the road to Baghouz, as the last scrap of a caliphate prepared to submit finally to the ceaseless bombardment against it, that I was given a handful of IS coins.
All around, there were wide craters from coalition airstrikes, marking the rich, soft soil of the Euphrates riverbank. The smell of cordite hung in the air and the deep pits in the road were bigger and more plentiful than those that gouged the earth in Raqqa, the former de facto capital of Islamic State in Syria, and its Iraqi stronghold, the city of Mosul. Hollowed out towns and broken minarets had become a familiar sight in the long war against the black-clad fighters of IS. But the heavy brown coins were a new discovery.
The Arab tribes fighting with the Kurdish-led Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF) had great, dirty handfuls of them, and gave them freely to journalists at the front. On a freezing night patrol through some orchards in IS territory, the men, filthy and exhausted, carried blankets with them through the gloom of the dust stirred up by their vehicles. They looked like an army from another age.