When there is no art there is no community
This is a vivid report on 2 workshops with Ezidi participants in Germany—some of whom have never painted before. They interacted with artists, Ravo Osman and Qasim Alsharqy, on the topic of the 2014 Ezidi genocide. The sessions were both a deeply reflective and creative time. Those who survived the genocide drew upon their memories and experiences to produce evocative artworks that touched everyone’s hearts—from children holding hands to empty water bottles standing aloft in a scorched landscape.
In May 2026, we began creative workshops for Shingali Ezidis on their memories of the 2014 genocide with the aim to go beyond simplistic understandings of “victim-survivors” identities. Facilitated by Leyla Ferman in the German town of Celle in collaboration with the social aid and welfare organisation, Caritasverband Celle; and along with Raminder Kaur in the UNESCO heritage town of Goslar, we came across participants with a variety of personal stories and styles with which to tell them. Most of them, however, had never put brush to canvas before. Even though slightly anxious at the beginning, they all appreciated the initiative—one of them making the comment that serves as the heading for this piece, and eager to explore what lay in store for him and others.
In Celle, participants worked with the Shingali Ezidi artist, Ravo Osman, who described his works and supervised others to tap their talents to creatively process their experiences of the genocide. Ravo’s introduction of himself and his journey into art already encompassed memories of the history of the Ezidis in Iraq. Following an introduction to drawing techniques and the world of colors, a discussion began regarding themes that deeply affected the participants. The conversations were shaped by a longing for Shingal and the holy pilgrimage site of Lalish, as well as a desire for recognition—just as other peoples and religious communities are recognised. Each participant drew what had been weighing on their minds since 2014. In the end, almost everyone gave their drawings names and shared with the other participants what inspired them to create their artwork. Arzan called hers "The Seven Colors of Mourning," seven representing "infinite." The experiences of August 3rd, 2014, form the darkest area in her painting, a very dark area mixed with black. The other dark colors also have lighter tones. Arzan explains that she has experienced a great deal of grief since that day. In her village, men fought against Da’esh, helping others to escape in time. Many family members and friends were killed, and some were abducted and still considered missing. Her grief also includes the pain of not having seen her mother before her death, because she was in an IDP camp in the Kurdistan Region of Iraq; and Arzan, with her limited residency status, was not allowed to visit her. It also includes the separation from her two children in Iraq, whom she hasn't seen in 10 years. It seems as if each of the lizards in Arzan's picture tells a story.
Layla titled her picture "The Longing for Lalish." She drew a sacred temple in vibrant colors. She explained that the cloths in Ezidi temples are always a variety of colors, and that these cloths are used to tie wish knots. As all sacred places, including Lalish, are dear to her heart, she has a deep love for temples, it was important for her to depict such a cherished place. She hopes that her residency status will soon change so that she can visit Lalish again. Next to the temple are two adults with a child, representing her and her family, as well as all those fleeing Shingal. It can symbolise people who are close to their faith, whether they are fleeing from Shingal to Germany, thinking of Lalish, or visiting Lalish and other sacred sites. She herself primarily associates it with her escape to the Kurdistan Region of Iraq, where she initially went after fleeing Shingal. Above the scene are two trees. Just as the trees provided shade in the heat on 3rd August 2014, so Lalish and the faith of the Ezidi community stand like a shield for life.
Meryem and Mamo also capture the longing for, and significance of Lalish. Meryem depicts the three central sacred towers in white and brown, each topped with a yellow cloth, the color of the sun and light. The sky above Lalish is blue, and the sun shines because it is a beautiful place and holds great importance for her. Mamo drew the central entrance gate at the Temple of Shex Adî in Lalish, where the path leads to the heart of Lalish. It is a magnificent gate, with the image of a large black snake on the right side. This gate symbolises his origin and identity.
Cinar, a mother like the other women, drew the picture "What I Saw: August 3, 2014." She explained that she was drawing what she saw with her own eyes on August 3rd—elderly women, children, and men, fleeing unprotected and on foot. It was important to her to draw mothers in their white dresses because she cannot forget that sight. Vehicles with Da’esh flags can be seen on the right and left. She reflected that there was great fear because they could have been killed at any moment. They were surrounded by Da’esh. The sun in the upper part of the picture represents the harsh heat of that day to the point that some died of thirst. The large gray area on the left of the picture represents the smoke, the fear, the threat, and the mountains—the place where they were and where they fled. Cinar says that it still sometimes feels like a dream to her, as if August 3rd had happened. She often thinks about that day.
Rêbaz, like Mamo, a young man, drew an Ezidi flag on a flagpole: white at the top and bottom, a red stripe across the middle, and a yellow sun centered on the red stripe. He said he wanted to draw something that encompassed all the themes surrounding the genocide: “simple and straightforward,” as he put it. He connects it with memories of August 3rd, but also with identity and the future: “One should not forget where one comes from.” He calls his drawing, “The Identity of the Ezidis.”
Salim called his drawing “The Mountains of Shingal.” What's striking is that the mountains are as blue as the sky, and the sky is grey like the mountains, with only a few yellow rays of sunshine. On August 3rd, he recalled that the “Earth and sky collapsed into each other:” the world turned on that day; nothing was as it had been before. Still, the mountains remained green, and the many green dots are the people who fled into the mountains, which became like the sky and protected them, or the little water that kept them alive during the seven days surrounded by Da’esh. At the bottom of the picture, in purple, is the road that winds through the Shingal mountains.
In Goslar, participants worked with fellow Ezidi artist, Qasim Alsharqy. He first described his intentions for three of his many paintings with which to catalyse participants to think creatively about their experiences. He started with a painting of a large watermelon, a seasonal fruit that is abundant in Shingal. Around it are insects with wings; below a blood red sea with Ezidi people on boats trying to get to safe havens. In the distance is an allusion to Flemish landscapes of the Vermeer school with its church towers and fortress gates, seemingly oblivious to the disturbing imagery of genocide-induced displacement that lay in front.
Next Qasim introduced his epic artworks that integrated found objects, soil and other items from Shingal. After the genocide, Qasim went to Shingal and found several abandoned shoes on the plains before Shingal Mountain. Without anticipating any plans for them as he walked around sombrely, he ended up picking up 27 individual items of footwear—from child to adult size. He also picked up a bottle of water, some edible seeds and a rock from the bottom of the mountain. He bought these items all the way to Germany, and stored them in his studio until he felt inspired to complete ten pieces of art in mixed media. A slider poignantly had the name “Happy Home” on it and was placed alongside a tattered old trainer against an ochre desert sparsely scattered with trees under what looks like a starry sky. Another in the series has two different trainers—one pointing up, the other down—this time against a cerise tornado effect of edible seeds that grow in the region.
Qasim’s third painting, “Genagelte Nagel” (“Nailed Nail”) was of a nail in a surreal landscape with mountains behind. He described how the symbol of the nail and the hammer repeatedly plays a role in his paintings. He elaborated that there are always powers who make decisions about others and bend them to their will. These might be states or individuals who oppress, but also parents raising their children, or a judge handing down a ruling. The hammer need not always be negative; a judge, for instance, can also uphold people's rights. His painting depicts a large, steadfast nail surrounded by many small, bent nails. The large nail has bent a big hammer that holds another small, bent nail within its heart-shaped mouth: the intention being that even when many have been oppressed and killed, if one remains steadfast and strong, a single nail can bend and render useless the hammer that tries to bend and weaken people.
After some artistic and digestive food for thought, participants were then asked to select a painting from Qasim’s oeuvre on display on the walls around them and then use it as an inspiration board for painting their own works. Mirza, a construction worker, was drawn to a painting, “Die Einzige Hoffnung” (“The Only Hope”) depicting Da’esh as horrific martians raiding Berlin’s Brandenburg Tor, people running away from them, a cobweb, and a woman trapped in a glass ball, with an image of Germany’s former Chancellor Angela Merkel, standing on the side holding some welcome balloons. Mirza’s paintings evolved to reveal a Matisse-like cut-out quality with imagery of dark figures on fertile plains indicating how their neighbours had conspired with Da’esh and took over their land. On top are bricks that were used to attack the extremists by Ezidi people who were left with no protection or ammunition with which to defend themselves.
Khalaf who worked in a pharmacy was drawn to Qasim’s painting, “Ansicht” (“View”), which depicted water pouring out from an empty frame in a reddish landscape. It epitomised hope and inner strength, where people can overcome difficulties and continue their journey. Khalaf went on to paint imagery of Shingal Mountain—a central source of inspiration—and a blazing sun over the landscape. In one he represents two hands reaching out for each other, indicating the frail connection they had with their homeland.
Ahmed was inspired by Qasim’s painting, “Das Leid der Frauen” (“The Sorrow of Women”) showing a destroyed Shingal that could not harbour any life represented by flailing peacocks caught in captivity. Ahmed went on to paint his two young children holding each others’ hands tightly, evoking how children in captivity held tightly to each other. In another he represents a turbulent imagery of the Shingal mountain, which also seemed to ominously evoke figures of terror for the viewer.
Huda was drawn to Qasim’s painting, “Insights Ansehen”, of an aeroplane that flies over wire fences acting like borders, and shows people dropping off from its underside. Originally painted to depict the western allies abandoning people in Kabul when the Taliban took over, Huda was reminded of her suffering on the mountain when her teenage self and her family sought shelter from, on the one hand, the ferocious fire of ISIS and, on the other, the scorching heat of the sun. It was then that she recalled airplanes going over her dropping food and water, all the time hoping that one of them would lift them from their desperate misery. She drew imagery that was common amongst the participants—her home, the Shingal mountain, the sun, and the trees they sought to seek shade under in the August heat. However, the childlike quality of her paintings were conveyed in somber colours, indicating a childhood that was traumatised - the only touch of bright colour being a red poppy that symbolised hope and rejuvenation, a flower that blooms around the time of the Ezidi new year in April.
Adan, a bus driver, chose a painting of an apple on the grounds of Shingal entitled “Traupfel”, a combination of the German term, trauben for grapes and apfel for apple, indicating the connection between these two fruits, and more broadly the harmony of nature. The hybrid represents both the beauty and the fragility of the world against human damage and destruction. Adan’s paintings showed a spring-like hope with light pink blossoms growing on trees and a large sun—an image that is prominent in Ezidi symbology—lighting up an orchard of leafy trees despite the wreckage of their homes.
Saher was an IT worker who came from a family of creatives in poetry, storytelling and painting. His expert hand was obvious in the meticulous attention he paid to a man on a black holding a limp saz instrument standing on a black and white chess board against a fiery orange sky. Another of his works was powerful in its simplicity—an empty plastic bottle standing ghostlike in the middle of a sandy desert that evoked multiple tales of thirst on the mountain where mothers had to resort to putting their saliva in their children's mouths while others died of dehydration.
The plethora of paintings demonstrated a chrysalis of distinctive and personal styles. They were testimony to untapped talents that lay latent among Ezidi migrants who are busy with work trying to earn a livelihood for themselves and their families as they try to set up new homes. One of the participants said, “You should conduct the workshops in Shingal—there they have plenty of time but no opportunities like this.” We pondered over this possibility. All appreciated the fact that it is not enough just to survive but also strive to thrive: despite the traumas of loss and violence, the desire to follow dreams, support others, and live life to the full were the principal drives, both in Shingal and overseas. They said, it was rewarding to come together after so many yeare and reflect on experiences of the genocide, as in their daily life there are not such spaces. It is through such creative channels that people can seek succour to thrive as a community.
Leyla Ferman and Raminder Kaur, June 2026
