Mosul, 1917. The Year of Hunger.

The great famine that gripped Mosul was not merely a lack of food; it was an unmaking of the world. It was born from drought and multiplied by the economic chaos of a dying empire. The Ottoman lira was worthless, and the once-bustling markets of Mosul were haunted by specters trading in whispers for scraps. In this abyss, the rules of life were rewritten daily. Stray cats vanished first, then the dogs. When the animals were gone, people turned inward, their hunger a quiet, maddening companion.

In a modest home, Abboud al-Tabakh, a cook by trade, and his wife Khajawa faced this void. They had eaten the last of the street cats, finding the dogs that followed somewhat more palatable. But now, those were gone too. The choice, as they saw it, was a stark, animal logic: die of hunger, or eat what was most abundant. The people around them.

Their first attempt was a failure born of desperation and poor selection. An elderly neighbor woman came to visit. They suffocated her, cooked her flesh, and found it revolting—too harsh, too fatty. They spent the night vomiting, not just from the taste, but from the transgression.

The next morning, a new and terrible idea took hold. Khajawa, whose mind had turned practical in its horror, suggested a different source. If the old were unpalatable, the young would surely be tender. Abboud, whose culinary mind understood textures, agreed. The decision was made not in a frenzy, but with a chilling pragmatism.

They had a weapon their neighbors did not: a young son. They sent him into the streets, not to beg, but to lure. "Come play with me," he would say, and a child would follow him home, away from the preoccupied eyes of starving adults. Once inside, the door closed. Abboud would bludgeon the child with a rock. What followed was not a crime of passion, but a butcher's process. They skinned, disjointed, and cooked. They found the meat, as predicted, to be "very delicious."

For months, this was their secret sustenance. The famine provided the perfect camouflage; missing children were one more tragedy in a city drowning in them. The authorities, overwhelmed, took little note. As their operation grew efficient, a surplus developed. Abboud, the cook, saw an opportunity. They began selling the excess meat from their home, presenting it as fine qaliya (a spiced mutton stew) or prized venison to their equally desperate, unsuspecting neighbors. The cannibalism had become a cottage industry.

Their home became a factory of death. A well in their backyard, meant for water, became a repository for the truth. Into it went the skulls and bones, piling up unseen—a ledger of their consumption.

The end came from a man who knew meat better than most. A local butcher, savoring the stew he had purchased, bit down on a small, solid bone. His professional fingers retrieved it from his mouth. It was a child's finger bone. He went straight to the police.

The raid uncovered the well. The sight of over a hundred small skulls, piled in the dark, shattered any conceivable explanation. Under interrogation, Khajawa's resolve broke. She confessed to everything, detailing their grim menu. Abboud, it is said, was more defiant, framing their actions as a choice forced upon them by a negligent state.

Their trial was swift. The public’s horror, long diluted by hunger, now concentrated into a pure, furious hatred for these specific monsters. Upon sentencing, they were paraded through the center of Mosul on donkeys, a ritual of humiliation. The crowd spit and cursed. One woman, who had lost three children, broke through and bit off one of Khajawa's toes. Khajawa wept and apologized; Abboud cursed the government.

At Bab Al-Tob Square, makeshift gallows awaited. They were hanged before a vast, vengeful crowd. The story of Abboud and Khajawa was over, but the questions they embodied hung in the air, heavier than their bodies: At what point does a victim of circumstance become its most active monster? And does the society that created the famine share a portion of the guilt for the horrors that sprouted from its barren soil?

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Disclaimer: This video is intended for historical education and documentary purposes. It contains discussions of sensitive and disturbing topics, including violence against children. Viewer discretion is advised.