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Ten years ago, as Islamic State ransacked Iraq and Syria, captives used makeshift tattoos to honour loved ones and defy their attackers. Today, the marks tell the story of what they have endured and lost

Shaghayegh Moradiannejad is a photographer and women’s-rights activist based in Vancouver.

The Yazidis are an ethnic and religious minority group from northern Iraq. They have faced centuries of persecution because of their beliefs, but their darkest chapter began in August, 2014, when Islamic State launched a genocidal campaign against them. As Islamic State swept through the area around Sinjar and other Yazidi homelands, 200,000 people were displaced, thousands were killed, and women and children were taken captive, enduring unimaginable abuse. In June, 2016, the United Nations officially recognized these atrocities against the Yazidi community as genocide.

In the aftermath, many Yazidi women marked their trauma on their own bodies with tattoos, created using a mixture of ash –the only resource they had during the winter as they burned wood to keep warm. Without proper tools, they used anything sharp they could find to scratch their skin, along with their blood and breast milk, to make the tattoos. These makeshift tattoos carry deep personal significance – names of loved ones lost, prisoner numbers assigned by Islamic State, or dates marking captivity and loss. Each tattoo is a scarred remembrance, a refusal to let the atrocities be forgotten, and a testament to survival.

Today, though these women have escaped Islamic State’s physical grip, they continue to live in psychological captivity, marked by loss and the challenge of rebuilding. Many live in UN camps or Khalsa Aid camps in the Kurdistan region near Duhok in northern Iraq. I hope this photo series, Ash Milk, brings attention to their enduring strength, the silent stories etched in their skin, and the resilience of a people determined to heal.

Hediyeh, 30, and Shahnaz, 27, each used ash and breast milk to put their husbands’ names on their hands. Neither woman knows where their spouses went.
The Islamic State’s attacks against Yazidis – a Kurdish-speaking ethnic group with its own monotheistic religion – first centred on the Iraqi city of Sinjar. Aliyeh, 18, was captured there and tattooed its Kurdish name, Shangal, on her right hand.
In captivity, Hediyeh, born in 1991, sewed the names of her sister, brother, husband and son onto some cloth that she hid from the militants. Since she escaped and made her way to a Yazidi camp, this cloth is her only piece of property left from those dark days.
Media, 17, tattooed ‘Baba,’ meaning ‘father,’ on her arm; she does not know whether her father is dead or alive. Hazar Khalaf, 40, has not seen son Easr or husband Xero since the Islamic State attacked their home. Their names on her hand are a reminder of their absence.
Soad, born in 1998, made tattoos with a mixture of blood, ash and milk. Originally, they included her still-missing sister’s name, a heart and the word ‘love.’ Her captors told her that last phrase was haram – forbidden – before they burned it off with acid.
On one arm, 35-year-old Layla has the names of sons Adnan and Osman; her husband, Kero, is on the other arm, as is the date – Aug. 8, 2014 – when the Islamic State attacked their city. Adnan escaped captivity and found his mother in a refugee camp. Neither one knows where Osman or Kero are.

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