Murad

The trauma of return

My name is Murad, I am 27 years old, from Al-Ba’aj, Nineveh. I am an English teacher. My journey has been filled with challenges and resilience.

During the height of the conflict, I was forced to flee to Sinjar mountain, where I endured eleven harrowing days. After that, I found refuge in Sheikhan camp, where I lived for nearly a decade. Recently, I returned to my hometown of Sinjar, only to find everything in ruins. The house where I grew up was completely destroyed by ISIS, and there is no assistance or services from organizations to help rebuild.

Everything changed

In 2013, life in our community in Shingal was simple and joyful.

We were together like brothers and sisters, and there was no day without playing football.

Our neighbourhood was tightly knit, we felt a deep sense of belonging, and the idea of leaving our hometown never crossed our minds! Life was steady, not much impacted the residents of our community. However, when ISIS invaded, everything changed.

The majority was Yazidi in the village but the betrayal by some of our trusted Arab and Muslim neighbours was devastating. I'm sorry to say that, but it's the reality, and I have to say it. It's painful to think about the friends we lost and the uncertainty surrounding those who are missing. In many ways that sense of betrayal has made it hard to even imagine returning to Shingal.

If it's up to me, I don't, ever want to go back to Shingal.

When you grow up somewhere, and people who were your friends betray you, and killed your brothers, and kidnap your sister and your mother, of course you don't want to live with them again. I remember when we were playing football together when we were kids like 13 and 14 years old. We were playing like brothers.

I heard a story from a neighbour, that a carpenter who was building his house, kidnapped one of his daughters, when ISIS came, and he’d said he had waited many years for that day.

How could we live with such people again?

I have spent many nights going to sleep crying while thinking about my friends, and how we used to play together, about my teacher, who on the night before the 3^rd August, phoned me to give me a lot of advice about how he didn’t trust those people, and then the next day he was killed. My other teacher, who was teaching me IT skill, he belonged to them, and now he is with them, with ISIS. I don't know anything about him.

On the night of the 3rd of August, when ISIS attacked our village Wardiya, we took refuge in the mountain for eleven days, uncertain of what the future held.

I was 16 years old at the time.

Those who lived on the northern side of the mountain fled to Kurdistan immediately, but most of the people on the southern side fled towards the mountain. Around 200 or 250 people were kidnapped from my village. I think around 50 of them were from a single family.

At first my father didn't allow us to flee to the mountain, because the elders didn't expect the horrors that ISIS did. He said he will not allow any members of my family to flee to the mountain, and so we stayed home.

It was around 7.45pm, when the ISIS cars came to my village.

They started shooting at us, they attacked us immediately.

I managed to hide behind a wall. All my family were hiding there.

That night about 9pm or 10pm, we managed to get out from our house, and we fled to the mountain on foot.

When we were about two or three kilometres away from home, we saw their lasers, and they saw us as well, but they didn't shoot at us. So we continued on our way to the mountain.

My brother was barefoot, and my uncle was too. It was extremely hard. We had not managed to bring any food for the children.

That night at about 1am or 2am, we managed to go back to the village and get some food, take a few things, and headed back up to the mountain.

Imagine, I was carrying 45 kilos of flour up the mountain when I was 16 years old!

My brother didn't eat for three days. He said, I couldn't eat. I don't know, every person had a story. He also lost some of his close friends.

Eventually we made our way to Karsi, and then we came down from the mountain on the northern side.

We walked between Khanasor and Snuny, towards Syria and then when we were near to the border, a truck brought us into Syria, and then to Kurdistan.

First we went to Kora Gawana Camp in Zawita. We stayed there about four or five months.

Then in 2015 we came to Sheikhan Camp, and we remained there until recently when we returned back to my village (2024). All my family were there with me.

We didn't have plans to go to a different camp.

Life in displacement

Life in Sheikhan camp

We are a big family. In my tent, there were the three of us, my wife and I and my little daughter. Her name is Meral. I have six brothers and three sisters, one of them just got married, and my parents. We all lived there. Three of my brothers also got married, and they have children. Khalil has three, Zeid has one and Muhsen has one. We are a big family, and we lived in four tents. I also got married in the camp and my brother too.

Our life in the camp was not what we wanted. Just imagine living in a tent for ten years, and you don't know what the future holds.

For example, if I start a business or something in the camp, I know it is not going to last because I know that one day will come that we will leave the camp. I needed to focus on a chance to go abroad. I wanted to choose that over life in limbo in the camp.

One of the other problems in the camp is that we have to look out for fires. If the tent catches fire it will just burn in two or three seconds and already our electrics caught on fire four or five times! Luckily we were not sleeping at that time. Once it was at 2am, but we were awake watching football and thanks to that we caught the fire early. Otherwise if we were not awake, I believe right now would not have been alive.

Actually, it's very hard, for me to think about returning to Shingal, it's very difficult due many gangs, and different political and militia forces there. They can kill you for no reason. If someone decides they don't like you, they can kill you, and nobody will care, and nobody knows who has killed you.

The future actually is unclear.

Uncertain return

While our old home lies in ruins, what can we do?

Living in Wardiya has been incredibly difficult, especially as a married man with a child. The lack of electricity and basic necessities makes day-to-day life a constant struggle. In Wardia, political tensions run high, with various parties vying for control and influence. Amidst the chaos, airstrikes by Turkish planes and the presence of the PKK in our areas exacerbate the already precarious situation for Yazidi communities like ours. We feel unprotected as a minority, with no government to ensure our safety.

In the aftermath of the conflict, rebuilding Wardiya seems like an impossible task. Authorities prioritize rebuilding Arab areas, leaving Yazidi communities like ours neglected. Despite living in tents for nearly ten years, we continue to receive inadequate services such as electricity, water, and financial assistance.

Despite these hardships, I continue to teach and hope for a better future for my family.

My desire is to leave and go abroad, but unfortunately, due to the financial constraints I haven't been able to do so. However, many of my relatives have chosen to leave the country and seek refuge abroad. Some of them went to Germany, Netherlands, US, and Australia. There are various routes like for example, some travel to Greece, and then make their way to the Netherlands, Germany, and Belgium.

I would like to go to either the Netherlands or to Australia, and I've already applied for two or three short courses in the Netherlands. So if I have get accepted, I will go there and then request for my family to join me. I will be there for maybe one or two years. Then my family will join me, so that's why I have applied for the those courses.

Despite the immense challenges we face here in Sinjar, I hold onto hope for a better future. Living in Wardiya, with its high political tensions and constant threats, has taught me the importance of resilience. As a minority, we often feel unprotected and neglected, but I remain committed to my work as a teacher. Education is a powerful tool, and I believe it can pave the way for a brighter future for my family and community. My dream is to see our home rebuilt and to live in a place where my child can grow up in peace and security.