A kidnapped woman talks to her family over the phone. We cannot see her, but hear her voice, as do her family and siblings. Some are adults, others small children, but all are listening whilst crying silently. The woman explains that there is bombing nearby, but that she is not afraid. She only wishes the bombs would hit her house. “I want to either die or escape, they treat us like animals.” She is Yezidi, but the IS forced her to convert. They took her husband away, and gave her to an IS-fighter. The woman wants to flee, but is unable to take her children, whom the IS want to train to be soldiers and go against other Yezidis. “What kind of religion teaches children to kill their own parents?” she asks rhetorically. Her voice is strong and lucid, with an underlying anger, no tears or whining.


It is not hard to sympathise with the thousands of Yezidi women who were abducted when the IS attacked the Sinjar mountains in 2014. Some managed to flee, or were ransomed by relatives or aid organisations. To others, the assaults are never-ending: slave auctions, forced marriages, repeated rapes. What has to happen for us to acknowledge these fates, for them to become more than just statistics? At this year’s IDFA, the Amsterdam documentary festival, three different films highlighted this theme through moving individual encounters.

Ransom. The phone scene forms part of Shingal, Where Are You? in which Greek director  Angelos Rallis visits a Yezidi family who have sought refuge in a disused coal mine on the Turkish border. They are desperately fighting to regain their daughter from the IS, by buying her freedom through various middlemen, something akin to a labyrinthine fight against the clock. The film title ‘Shingal’ does not refer to the daughter, but the village they fled and continue to long for. When they return, the village lies in ruins.

I am not going to reveal the conclusion of the search, but the pain in the film is affected by a situation where nothing is clarified. The refugees wait in a state of limbo, where they still do not know the extent of what they have to deal with. The result is a commute between action and paralysis, as when a sibling quietly comments, during the phone call, that it feels almost pointless to talk to the sister, because they are unable to help her. They have to hide these feelings for their sister, whilst the mother simultaneously reassures her on the phone not to be afraid, as she probably will be rescued.

Compassion. In the Swedish-produced documentary The Return, director Zahavi Sanjavi takes us to a more organised refugee camp, where a large share of the 20,000 people are Yezidis. The director has a Kurdish background, similarly to the main character, Swedish nurse Shilan Atroushi. She volunteers at a Swedish-run hospital, and we accompany her around the camp.

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