The Voices of Shariya Camp

Springs of Hope
Sep 22
12 min read

This week, Bashiq, our English teacher and Nurse Salah spent time inside the camp, just a few days after the 11th memorial of the genocide, and a few days prior to the memorial of the Kojo massacre and of laying 22 recently identified corpses to rest. They stopped to drink tea, and to talk but mainly to listen to the voices, to see the mood in the camp.

The voices after eleven years are strong, including the voices of children who were born and raised inside the camp, so we decided to share them with you. Something of a reality check eleven years later.

It is for these that we are here. It would be wrong to stifle their voices as we have stood eleven years as witnesses to the injustice committed against these people, and we have heard as it were, the voice of Abel crying out from the ground.

As Bonhoeffer said, "We are not to simply bandage the wounds of victims beneath the wheels of injustice, we are to drive a spoke into that wheel itself." That remains our call, our vision, and our commitment. To drive that spoke in deep.

Salah on the left, Bashiq on the right

Kamo Melhem Misho

"I am fifty years old or more, and I come from a village called Siba Sheikh Khidr in Shingal.

To this day, my sister and her three children are still in the hands of ISIS. We don’t know anything about them, where they are or what happened to them.

August 3rd is not just an ordinary date… it is a deep wound. But we are not only victims, we are witnesses. Each one of us carries something in their heart: sorrow, fear but also strength.

What hurts the most is not hunger, not even the heat, it's the waiting…Waiting to return, waiting for news, waiting for a lost embrace. Yet, when a child passes by and laughs, we feel that something beautiful is still alive. Despite life’s harshness, our hearts still beat, our tongues still pray, and our eyes still hold hope for return.

As for my own feelings, I live alone in this tent.In the morning, in the evening, in the burning summer, and the cold rain of winter I don’t know what to do.

My thoughts are always with my sister and her children, and my heart is with them.I know very well that this situation is extremely difficult and harmful to my health, but loneliness is eating me from the inside.

As you know, we cannot return to our land, I am alone, and I have nothing else."

Kamo Melhem Misho

Zere Isamil (67 years old)

"We are not just waiting for bread or medicine. We are waiting for the doors to open.The doors of our lives were closed on August 3rd — a day unlike any other.

August 3rd was not just a date; it became an entire lifetime of pain. All our feelings have been shaped by that day. It lives in every tear, every silence, every broken breath. August 3rd cannot be measured by the calendar, it is measured by the years stolen from our lives. We remember it every year, but we live it every day.

It was the day safety disappeared, families were torn apart, our daughters vanished, and a life that cannot be called life began.

If you’ve never lived under a nylon tent, you cannot understand what it means to lose everything. More than ten years have passed, and we’re not really living — we’re just surviving. Each year begins with new hope, but by the end of each month, we find ourselves back where we started.

Even our patience is exhausted. Even our prayers escape from dry mouths and hearts full of holes. We live in a tent that holds no meaning of life.

In winter, we wonder if it will fly away with the wind.In summer, we wonder if it will melt onto our bodies from the scorching heat.In autumn, dust covers our dreams just as it covers our land.We live without hope — but we do not forget those who stood with us.We thank every person, every organization, every country that extended a helping hand. They gave us hope — even if temporary, it was a deeply human act.But the truth is bigger than a tent and deeper than a meal. The truth is: we are waiting.Waiting for the doors to open.Waiting for our daughters to return.Waiting for a lost face… for a voice to say: “We are back.”

Yet even those who returned… returned broken. Those who escaped from ISIS are now living under a different kind of oppression, in places unfit for life, without rights, without dignity. We do not only want to survive — we want to be free. Free from oppression, from humiliation, from the time that stole us. When we free the oppressed, we free life itself.

For those who live August 3rd every day, they do not need a calendar to remember.They are waiting for the world to listen — to feel, to understand, and to act…before it’s too late."

Zere Isamil

Sami: Gardener

"Living in a refugee camp is very different from anywhere else in the world—especially our camp, which is even harder than most in Kurdistan because of its poor infrastructure. They built shared public WCs for everyone—about one for every 15 tents. We live in tents—people are still living in tents here.

It's been 11 years since we first arrived. Everyone thought it would just be for a few days, that it was temporary, and that we would return home soon. But now people have realized that it’s over. We've lost hope of going back to live in Shingal. Eleven years is a very long time. A whole new generation has been born who have never even seen Shingal.

And now it's August 3rd again. This day reopens all the wounds—it makes us remember everything. Every year, as this date approaches, the pain comes back. But this time, it feels different. We all felt it. It’s like we’ve given up. Given up on going back, on having our homes again. It feels like we’re going to die here.

We’ve gotten used to this life. The new generation might grow up not even knowing they had a home—anywhere other than this refugee camp."

Sami: Gardener

Khero: House Father

"August 3rd is a day we can never, ever forget. In the camp, whenever this day approaches—even days before or after the exact date—people are overwhelmed with memories, thinking about what happened and remembering the ones they lost.

You can see pictures with black ribbons in the corners everywhere—in the tents, on social media, in the streets. People cry out loud for their kidnapped loved ones. They lost everything.

We live here carrying all kinds of feelings. Life goes on here, and we’re not planning to go back. Personally, I’ve gotten used to it here. Shingal will never get better—it’s not safe, and there’s no life there.

People want to return, but it’s just not safe. Life in the refugee camp, as hard as it is, still feels more secure than what waits for us in Shingal.

It’s been 11 years. Sadly, this is our home now."

Khero: House Father

Nayas Hassan Khider (11 years old, Art Student)

"I was born just a few months before the Yezidi genocide, so I don’t remember anything from that time. I didn’t see it happen.

I grew up in the camp. I’ve visited Shingal many times. I’ve heard the stories about what they did to us—how they came, killed our people, kidnapped us, sold our women and girls. I know they did all of this just because we are Yezidi.

Some of my father’s relatives were killed or went missing, but I don’t know exactly who they were or how they’re related to me. All I know is they were close to my father.

I don’t like living in the camp. I really want to live in Shingal. But when I visited, I saw how destroyed it is—buildings in ruins, streets full of broken concrete and rubble. Still, even though I don’t remember anything from the past, being there feels special. It feels like home.

Shingal means something to me. I’ve learned it’s my home. Some of my uncles have returned there.

Here in the camp, I don’t have any real friends. The kids around me smoke and have bad behavior. I feel like I don’t belong with them."

Nayas Hassan Khider (11 years old, Art Student)

Kamal Khalo (35 years old)

"My name is Kamal, and I currently live in Shariya Camp.

When we first came here, we thought it would not last more than a month before we could return to our homes and live safely in our land. But the years passed—one after another—until we reached the eleventh year of displacement. Eleven years is not an easy number; it is an entire lifetime filled with waiting, longing, and suffering.

Today, I live in a small tent and have opened a modest shop selling sweets to children. Sometimes I sell yogurt, figs, and a few natural products just to earn a living… nothing more. Life here is extremely difficult—there is no aid from the camp administration and no help from organizations as before. In the beginning, there were hands reaching out to us, but now most of them have withdrawn. We appreciate their effort and hard work, but… what can we do? This is the life we have been forced into.

We live between two bitter choices:

Either we remain under a nylon tent in the blazing summer heat, only to face the harsh winter with its storms, heavy rains, and terrifying thunder,

Or we return to our destroyed homes, starting from less than zero—without a house, without services, and in the midst of wars and crises that have not ended. Our relatives there say that life in the camp is better than theirs, because they are deprived of everything. Even when someone gets sick, they must travel from those distant areas to Duhok to seek medical care.

Here in the camp, we once had a small clinic that provided us with basic healthcare services, but it closed after its contract with the supporting entity ended. We have also been relying on Al-Amal Medical Clinic, (The Hope Clinic) which takes care of us if someone has high blood pressure, needs a diabetes check, or suffers a wound or burn. However, we fear that one day they will leave too, and we will be left with no healthcare at all—forced to face our illnesses and pains alone.

When I first came here, I hoped not to be a burden on anyone. I told myself, “I will return soon to my city.” But the years passed, and everything changed.

We are now on the eve of the 11th anniversary of the fall of Sinjar. It was not just our city that fell—we fell as well. Our dreams fell, and our hearts were broken. Our eyes are filled with tears, and our bodies are exhausted from years of waiting.

Sometimes we wonder: If life here—with all its hardships—is better than there, how do our loved ones, who were taken by ISIS, live? What do they eat? How do they feel? How do they sleep? Their lives must be far harsher.

For eleven years, international organizations have helped us, but even they have grown weary. Perhaps some of them think we stay in the camp for our own benefit or comfort but the truth is, we are trapped between two fires:

If we return, we do not know when we might be killed again by extremist groups or sleeper cells,

And if we stay, we remain without services, without essentials, without a dignified life.

Life for us has become like hell—and I say this with sorrow, but we are forced to speak the truth.

Yet, we still hope that goodness exists in people’s hearts, and that those who hear our voice will stand with us, just so we can stay alive."

Kamal Khalo 35 years old

Hassan Khurmsh Hussen

"My 11 Years Without a Home.

My name is Hassan Khurmsh Hussen. I have lived in Sharya Camp for 11 years. I came here after I lost both my legs in a fall while working. I thought it would be temporary, but this tent, this small room, became my life.

The camp is not home. In summer, the heat burns your skin until you feel you are melting. In winter, the cold cuts through your bones no matter how many blankets you have. The dust covers everything: your clothes, your food, even your breath. When it rains water finds its way inside.When the wind blows the walls shake. We have no proper bathrooms, no real kitchen, just a small space where everything is in one place: where I sleep, where I eat, where I sit all day.

People outside think we are safe here, but safety is not the same as living. Nights are long and heavy. Sometimes silence is so deep it feels like it’s pressing on your chest. Days are slow, and the air feels thick with memories we try to push away. We see each other every day, the same faces, the same tired eyes, and yet we all know each of us carries a pain no one can fix.

Every year, 3rd of August comes. In the village, people remember with prayers. In the camp, we remember with our whole bodies. The air is heavy, like the sky itself is grieving with us. Mothers cry quietly, holding pictures. Children ask, When can we go home? but we have no answer. We just look at each other and see the same pain in every face, the pain of losing a home, and the pain of still waiting.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t even have hands, just so I wouldn’t feel this life. But then I think of my daughters, and my heart still beats for them. My brother helps me live like a human. My doctor travels from Zakho to give me therapy. These small lights keep me from disappearing completely.

But the truth is, camp life is not living. It is waiting. Waiting for a door to open. Waiting for a day when we can feel human again."

Hassan Khurmsh Hussen

Shreen Khudaida

"My name is Shreen Khudaida. I come from Shingal, from the village of Siba Shkdre. For the past 11 years, my family and I, only three of us have called Sharya Camp our home.

Life here is survival, not living. In the summer, the heat doesn’t just warm you, it swallows you. The air turns dry and sharp, and the dust clings to your skin like a second layer. In winter, the cold is a slow ache that seeps into every joint. No matter how many blankets we pile on, the chill stays. The dust never leaves us; it's in our clothes, our food, our lungs. Our world is one small, crowded room where sleeping, cooking, and sitting all happen in the same space.

It’s true, we are refugees but I keep asking myself: why has it taken so long for us to still be here in the camp? Who will take responsibility for us? Who will care for us? When will we be able to think about the future? Why can’t I live like other people? Some nights, before I sleep, I just cry and ask these questions over and over.

When 3rd August comes, the whole camp changes. It is not a normal day. The air feels heavier, like it’s carrying all our memories at once. People speak in softer voices. Some cry quietly. Children notice the silence but don’t understand it. We don’t tell our stories out loud; they live inside our eyes.

People ask, Why don’t you go back to Shingal? But what is there for me? My house is gone. The walls, the roof, the life I had all gone. Only my son works, running a small shop to keep food on our table.

I don’t dream about a perfect life anymore. I dream of a day when the air feels light again, when my chest doesn’t carry this weight, when 3rd August comes and I am in a place that feels like home.

Until then, I remain here in the camp breathing dust, counting years, and holding on."

Shreen Khudaida

Yes, it is overwhelming dear friends, but we are not as those without hope, and we can do as David did in Psalm 61, "When my heart is overwhelmed, lead me to the rock that is higher than I." That is both our place of refuge, our withdrawing place and our sending out place.

Over the years we have run to the rock, run into that strong tower, so that we could continue to be that spoke, piercing the darkness, bringing justice by fighting for life, for hope, and future. Day by day, season by season, year by year.

I look at the voices of the elder generation, those who wait without hope, they remind me of the generation at the time of Moses who died in the Egyptian desert. We can comfort them and pour salve on their wounds. And that in itself is a labour of love and will bear its own fruit.

The younger generation though, particularly those who survived the captivity of ISIS, this is a different generation. Their voice is different, it’s the voice of resilience and strength. It is a voice and a sound of walking out of hell, it's the voice that laughs as scars are turned into crowns.

The voices of the students of the Hope Centre are not the voices of the camp in general. They are voices of a new generation that is rising, one that has found hope, and is clinging to it, binding itself to hope. For this principle of hope, that we spoke of last week, we fight, until there is a new song, a new sound, a new voice that speaks louder than the voice of blood crying from the ground.