There exists an innate tendency in us as beings that draws us to immediately dominate and instill our perception of the world. What I mean is, our innate tendency to order, limit, and compartmentalize every being we encounter into neat axiomatic databases. It is far more comfortable and natural to generalize, rather than regard each individual as their own separate entity. Sometimes, it is convenient, and othertimes it is a result of our own pattern recognition capabilities. It is true that we all fundamentally posses the tendency to compartmentalize, but there simultaneously exists a complex web of identities, cultures, behaviors, and even aesthetics we seek to display as a means to assert ourselves, different than the other. This is a global occurrence. Alas, our collective drive for self-assertion intersects with individual uniqueness, offering a paradox that underscores our shared humanity while highlighting our diverse paths of expression.This lays the foundation for culture. It is ideation, though not taking the physical form–it is not an occult entity.
The following notes consider various cases of Ezidi individuals I had the pleasure of meeting and interviewing. I’d argue a productive use of our time would render an investigation of the following data with a structuralist framework that offers more nuance to understanding the Ezidi identity as it prevails today. Despite the ontological debates on the Ezidi identity, I think a better question to explore is how various members exist, as is.
My position might provide some insight into why I began the work I did as a teenager. I grew up here in the United States, proud of my Kurdish heritage. I was always curious about the political context of my family’s migration to the United States. Upon hearing the stories of my family members who survived decades of targeted ethnic cleansing and assimilation, I began to examine how the world around me operated.
As a naive eighteen year old with seemingly limited skills, I sought solace in the works of those who lived before me to learn how we can prevent further senseless massacres, and how to confront the consequences of those that have already taken place. Through the work of many figures including Harvard’s Deborah Anker, who specializes in violence against women perpetrated by non-state actors, and Raphael Lemkin, who introduced the word “genocide” after studying the history of persecution of Jewish and Armenian peoples during the early 20th century, I arrived at transitional justice–proactive efforts to prevent atrocities.
My journey as a Kurdish human rights activist evolved organically from an inquisitive exploration of my heritage to an ardent commitment to confronting historical injustices and fostering transitional justice. The stories of survival within my family spurred a search for knowledge that led me to the concepts of human rights advocacy and the importance of acknowledging the devastating legacy of targeted violence, displacement, and persecution. For foundational context, the Kurds have fallen victim to decades of massacres in Turkey, Iran, Iraq, and Syria. Turkish-led massacres of Kurdish civilians in Dersim left 13,160 Kurds dead, and 11,818 forcibly displaced. Tens and thousands of Kurds were killed and criminalized because of their ethnic identity in Iran, and countless Kurds were persecuted by the Syrian government. Saddam Hussein’s Al-Anfal campaign in Iraq, which my parents fled in the late 1980s, promulgated countless massacres of Kurds which killed 100,000+ Kurdish civilians according to Human Rights Watch. A critical aspect of my engagement with the Kurdish identity has been to recognize both the agony of victimhood and the strength of preservation. Through meticulous study, I delved into the painful histories of massacres that my people endured. I acknowledged that the diaspora of today is forged from the resilience of survivors. Simultaneously, I embarked on a journey to uncover the hidden corners of our history, which unveiled our role in the Armenian Genocide of 1915. This somber chapter, while difficult to confront, became a vital piece in the puzzle of understanding our collective narrative.
There existed a darker part of our history. Our contribution as Kurds, to the Armenian Genocide in 1915. Kurds helped assist the Ottomans in killing Armenians, Greeks, and Assyrians. Our religious minorities, Alevi Kurds fell victim to the genocide by Sunni Kurdish and Turkish soldiers. Approximately 1 million, mostly Armenians and religious minorities were killed. Despite the large contribution, there were a handful of instances where Kurds helped Armenians, and others flee. The city of Slemani, where my mother is from was one of the many Kurdish areas that welcomed the survivors of the genocide. Alevi Kurds, who themselves endured similar fate of the Armenian fought to preserve and help rescue many Armenians. These moments of solidarity provided me with a semblance of hope regarding the future of minorities within the Middle East. The demonstration of union in light of injustice was something that I hoped would continue.
Beyond the Armenian genocide, there is a massive history of intolerance of Ezidis from Sunni Kurds. According to Xairy Shangali, an Ezidi author there exists over 300 instances of massacres perpetrated by Sunni Kurdish tribes. Here are just a few:
Confronting these shadows of history is not an act of diminishing my Kurdish identity; instead, it is an endeavor that bolsters the sincerity of our commitment to justice and empathy. By acknowledging our historical complexities, including instances of both darkness and light, we shape a narrative that is not limited to victimization but rather stands as a testament to our capacity for growth, understanding, and solidarity.
This brought me to my first project in working with the Ezidi population. Upon working and meeting many Ezidis after the genocide that took place in 2014, it became evident that they largely identify as their own ethnoreligious group, distinct from Kurds. Although some embrace their Kurdish identity, it is best to ask each individual and address them accordingly.
To move forward to a future without repeating the aforementioned atrocities, the crimes of the past ought to come to light, with accountability.History has shown that it is up to members of any marginalized community to advocate for themselves by raising awareness through writing, organizing, and advocacy. These activists formed networks, and allies, and gained social leverage in bringing further awareness to their conditions. Upon learning more about oppressed communities globally, I grew firm in the belief that I wanted to cultivate a digital and physical archive that displayed various populations that are working to not only preserve their identity but reclaim it, too. Upon working with the Ezidi community, I had the privilege of documenting their stories.
In the decades following the Holocaust, multimedia archives and museums were established to commemorate the legacy of the genocide and the lives it destroyed. An essential part of any genocide is the attempt to erase history as it is being created, and eliminate the cultural memory of a people. My work here aims to provide a platform for the voices that continue to persist today, despite centuries of perpetual genocide. Through my collections of stories and photos here, I hope to preserve the stories and artistic creations of the phenomenal individuals I've had the pleasure of meeting and befriending, who are rebuilding their lives with strength and dignity after surviving genocide and unrest.
As I navigate the path of a Kurdish human rights activist, my purpose remains twofold: to amplify voices that need to be heard, and to illuminate the corners of history that must not be forgotten. Through the amalgamation of storytelling, art, and preservation, my aim is to provide a platform for those who rebuild their lives after enduring the ravages of genocide and unrest. In celebrating their resilience and acknowledging their complex identities, I believe that we foster a more inclusive and compassionate future, one that cherishes the uniqueness of every individual while binding us together through shared experiences, challenges, and triumphs.
In essence, my journey through the complexities of identity, history, and advocacy has solidified the belief that confronting our past is a pathway to shaping a more just and harmonious world, where the lessons of history serve as a beacon of hope and understanding for generations to come.
In the scorching hot summers of 2018, I arrived to a Yazidi refugee camp located near Duhok. I arrived with the hopes of finding sustainable ways to provide empowerment to various families living in the camps. I had the honor of coming across Ahlem, who was 14 at the time we sat down together in the camps. She was a beautiful young girl, with incredibly kind eyes. Her uncle and father were present as well, and we shared some small exchanges about the work I was conducting. I met with her in her family’s trailer outside the refugee camps. It was a small white trailer, which helped protect them from the scorching hot summers of mid-July. Ahlem led me to her work. As we sat together on the ground of the trailer, she went away for a second to bring me her paintings. She was a phenomenal artist whose work led tears to my eyes. She explained that her work depicted various realms of the Ezidi identity. She captured everything so eloquently, from the trauma of the recent genocide she fled on foot, to the culture, the celebrations, the clothing, the sacred Ezidi practices, and the young children now forced to live in camps. We worked closely together to talk more about the inspiration behind her work, and of course, I was impressed, bewildered, and taken away by each word she spoke. She guided me through a set of paintings she had recently created. Some depicted gory experiences of the Ezidi women at the hands of ISIS, and others depicted the holy new year for Yazidi. She said she displayed some of her work at various exhibits and wanted to sell them. With her and her family’s permission, we sat down to consider which pieces she wanted to sell and which she wanted to keep. Then she told me the price she wanted to sell them for. So with the power of social media, we gathered her artwork, stored digital copies of the paintings, and began marketing her work. I posted on social media her story and photos of her artwork. And soon enough, there were requests pouring in to purchase her artwork. We were able to sell the photos to celebrities, artists, and others all around the world. From Brazil, Australia, NYC and Los Angeles. From there, I was able to cover the costs of shipping and then provide her with 100% of the profits. She continues to work as an artist today and is recognized for her work. We still keep in touch through Facebook.
I met Falah on the first day of attending the Bersiva camps, he was an art teacher for the kids in the refugee camps. When I walked into the tent, it was covered with sketches and depictions all throughout the nylon tent. He had magically turned his tent into a canvas, filled with photos of young kids, local elders, women, and his family. We instantly connected as he introduced me to his family and his artwork. His portfolio was incredible, inspired by realistic depictions of his surrounding. It seemed that his understanding of the world was the core center of his artwork, and consequently what was at the focus during his creation was amplified. Whether this was conditions at the camps, beautiful women he encountered, or the innocence that remained behind the eyes of the children he painted— it was all captured uniquely, and crafted in a way to emphasize each respective characteristic.
Falah introduced me to some of the kids he taught, all of which took the time to sketch a quick doodle for me. I was honored to have witnessed first hand the creation of these little kiddos. The kids at the camp were often dressed in their favorite soccer team jersey’s. Below is a photo I took after teaching two of Falah’s students how to play tic, tac, toe after they quickly beat me several times in the game. The following photo depicts Falah's parents who forced me to sit, eat fruit and giggle with them, as life's disastiours should always be taken graciously.
Khalaf and I connected instantly as I sat down to meet him once Falah introduced us. He spoke perfect English, and we sat down to read a few books together. I asked about his life in the refugee camps and his thoughts on the condition of his people following the genocide. He, like many other Yazidi people I spoke to, was heartbroken considering the circumstances. But he understood the urgency behind documenting what happened and preserving the testimonies of his people. We talked about his career ambitions as well. He said he wanted to become a doctor when his family was watching, but later on, he said his true passion was to become a journalist, we exchanged a chuckle. Despite our shared laughs and sometimes banter as I tried to force him to accept a gift (he wouldn’t as it’s custom not to accept a gift the first few times someone tries) you couldn’t escape the harrowing sorrows these people have faced. At the time we met, he explained that he published a few articles in outlets like Rudaw and Jerusalem Post, but Khalaf and many others like him deserve more. A decent life with access to food, proper shelter and security and a platform to be heard from. He dreams to come to the United States to study with proper education.
He sent along this introduction on January 22nd, 2021 which ought to be read:
“I'm Khalaf, 19 years old. I'm from Iraq, Sinjar (Shingal ) city but I have been living in a refugee camp for six years with my family in Iraqi Kurdistan. Before 2014, we lived a simple life, we mostly tended sheep and for several years we farmed the land until we could establish our daily lives. It was very difficult yet we were happy with it. Then on 3rd August 2014, when I was only thirteen, we heard that ISIS was headed toward us and also that they were doing very bad things. We ( my family with my relatives ) started to escape to the mountain on foot as we didn't have cars. Before we arrived at the mountain, ISIS came, fired several shots over our heads, and forced us back to our village. For two days we were their hostages. We soon learned that ISIS hoped to wipe all of us off the face of the world. We were all very frightened and they were about to separate us to kill the men and take girls and women to be used by them as sex slaves. However, by luck, there was a problem for them somewhere away from our small village and one of their leaders summoned their men away from the village immediately. We were told not to move, and of course, we agreed. As soon as ISIS left us, we all ran and ran with all our strength until we arrived at the top of the mountain where ISIS couldn't come there. We suffered in the soaring summer heat for 10 days. There was no food or water. I saw with my own eyes many of the elderly and children crying and dying from thirst, hunger, and exhaustion. During that time, I was separated from my poor family. I was very frightened and I thought that I was going to die from thirst and hunger. Finally, a safe path to Syria was created for us. It was a very unexcited and heartbreaking moment to get far from our homeland, I said good bye to my beautiful sheep and the place where I was born. We walked and walked. Then after 13-14 hours of walking, we arrived in Syria where they welcomed us with food and water. We stayed there for several days. Many were separated from their families just like me and we were all thinking about our families. Then suddenly I met my family again and found out that all were still alive. We were then transported to Iraqi Kurdistan where we found relative safety and lived wherever we could find an abandoned building , until camps were built a few months later. What daily life in the camp like is: It's been very difficult for six years for us to stay in the camp. We have lost our jobs (tending sheep and farming the land ). We don't have neither bathroom nor kitchen. We often don't have general electricity especially it was very bad years ago but now it's better, so for the rest of the time in the winter we need to use candles, build little fires and use kerosene heaters, but it's very dangerous because the tents are very flammable and rotted from the sun. And when it rains, our tents are flooded. Our daily life is so hard, my both mother and grandmother are sick and they always need to go to the doctor, and my father runs a small shop to manage our daily lives. And none of my family members has ever received a salary. They all depend on my father and me as I sometimes work as a servant till I and my siblings can study and go to school and till my parents can go to the doctor. We're facing a very difficult situation and go through a damn life here in this camp for the past six years with much suffering.”
Khalaf has written many articles as well that are attached below:
With each subtle crunch of the leaves following Ali's footsteps, he walked further down the farm to guide us towards his sunflowers. It was one of the only healthy growing crops that made it through the violent heat of July. Ali was a sharecropper on this farm and hoped to harvest a reasonable amount of vegetables but it seems the heat prevented him from seeing any fruition of his crops. I was introduced to him by Adil who you will encounter soon. I explained to Adil that I had brought over some supplies that could be distributed to families. So he introduced me to Ali. After following him around on the farm Ali’s spirits seemed tired. He, like many others fled Sinjar when ISIS invaded.
A bright smile appeared on his face when we encountered his six children, after the tour of his crops. Needless to say his children were all incredibly witty, graceful and funny.
His eldest daughter and I particularly got along well. Her name was Yasmine, as shown to the right, in the pink butterfly shirt–and she had a good eye for photography. She took my Cannon and asked if she could take some photos. And with her permission, I have some of her work displayed below:
Because I was working alone throughout different refugee camps, I needed a reliable form of transportation. The contemporary environment isn’t safe for a woman to drive alone, so a Yazidi friend referred me to Hajim, who could help me and drive with me to different refugee camps. Hajim, like the others, fled Sinjar with his family and resettled outside of Duhok. Every morning, we’d wake up together at 6 am, head to the camps, and work until the late evening hours. It didn’t take too long before we became great friends.
Hajim helped introduce me to families in need and helped distribute supplies with me. On our long drives in the morning, we’d speak to each other about personal grievances. He’d speak about losing friends and family, and I’d speak about losing my older sister, Van. At the refugee camp, I took photos of the artists with whom I worked, religious leaders in the community, and parents and their children. I took photos of my friend Hajim’s family, his parents, and his wife. Through my photos, I documented the experiences and the resilience of Yazidi refugees. When I left Duhok, I assured Hajim, his wife, and the rest of my dear friends that I would see them again.
Before leaving on my last day, Hajim told me in secrecy that his wife was pregnant. I was incredibly excited, so I gifted him with whatever cash I had stored for an emergency. I didn’t know what else to do, I was overwhelmed with joy at the moment. After returning to Boston for school, I started my semester with my new friends always in my mind. I received a Facebook message from Hajim. There, on my computer screen was a photo of a precious baby girl, with a message that read, “Meet your little sister, we named her Van, after your older sister. We hope she resembles you in how you seek to help those in need with your natural humanitarianism.” Naturally, I began to tear up with such a message. I am not sure what I did that deserved such an honor, but this was by far the greatest recognition I could’ve ever received. It was an immense honor to have my sister’s legacy remembered through his newborn daughter.
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