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What Iraqi Women's Lives Look Like After ISIS

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Throughout the past couple of years, we've heard about the thousands of people who have fled the horrors of war in the Middle East, Islamic State's dominance, and other unimaginable conflicts. But what about those who have been left behind?

For more than two years, ISIS was in control of Mosul, a major city in northern Iraq. Mosul is the country's second most populated hub and in June 2014 became the largest region controlled by the group. But in the autumn of 2016, an American-led coalition, the Iraqi army, and the Kurdish Peshmerga forces were able to start regaining control of the city, which stands near the border between Iraq and Syria.

Around this time, photographer Abbie Trayler-Smith was able to travel to the area surrounding the city with Oxfam in an effort to capture what the experience was like for women who lived under the group throughout this period. They're now free from ISIS' control, but many challenges still remain.

Trayler-Smith's work addresses many questions: What was it like to live under the tight rule of ISIS and to now be liberated? What was the magnitude of ISIS' presence, and how did it shape their lives for those two years? What about their families? And where do they go from here?

"When the forces first broke into Mosul and people were able to escape, the stories they told us were so surreal to me," she told Refinery29, adding, "[They told us] how nobody had been allowed a phone or a SIM card, and how people had been killed if they were found with either in their possession."

The women interviewed by Trayler-Smith shared stories of loss, fear for the future, and resilience — from those who lost their partners, to those who were determined to rebuild their lives just like they were before ISIS' arrival. But if there was a common thread, it was the sheer horror of it all.

"The story that really chilled me to the core was from a mother who told me how they’d had to stop their children from going to school so that they wouldn’t be brainwashed. And when I asked what she meant she said, 'You know, in math class, they were counting like two guns plus two guns equals four guns, and singing songs about killing people,'" Trayler-Smith said. "It just made me realise what these people have lived through for two years."

More than 300,000 people have fled Mosul since last autumn, according to the office of the UN Humanitarian Coordinator in Iraq. The battle has lasted nine months, and the number of internally displaced people is expected to increase as the Iraqi forces regain control of the last sections of the city. Trayler-Smith emphasises that even though the majority of the city has been retrieved from ISIS' control, the women's journey is far from over.

The photographer said she wants people looking at her photos to see how many similarities exist between these women and any other person.

"What I felt after meeting and talking to all of the women I photographed is that they are no different to me or my friends," she said. "I hope people just pause to look at the pictures and see the women in them as just another human being. I hope they can make a connection with them like I did when I was there with them. Despite differences in culture and life experience we all have similar concerns: health, family, loved ones, security. None of the women I photographed want ISIS around."

Yusnita Mohammed, 39, at her home in the Bashir village.

Bashir was retaken from ISIS in May 2016, and since then its residents have begun returning home. The frontline with ISIS is still very close, approximately one mile away.

"I came to Bashir 12 years ago from Hawija. We left in 2003 after the 'liberation' from the regime. Before this crisis we were living very well. We had a two-story house, livestock, and a shop," she said. "We weren't worried about ISIS because we were surrounded by military and police. I never thought they would come to Bashir."

Photographed by Abbie Trayler-Smith / Panos.

Asmar Nouri Hamadi and her child in their section of the chicken barn they share with other internally displaced people.

Although her village is no longer under the control of ISIS, Nouri Hamadi and 18 other families are unable to return home, as they have been accused of conspiring with ISIS because they share the name of a tribe that has been associated with the terrorist group. As a result, the women's husbands have all been arrested. They are now living in limbo, relying on emergency food, water, supplies, and shelter from NGOs.

Photographed by Abbie Trayler-Smith / Panos.

Sisters Hadjar, 10, and Fatima, 7, who are from Hai Samar in Mosul. They arrived with their mother at the Hassan Sham camp a day earlier.

Photographed by Abbie Trayler-Smith / Panos.

"The first time I saw my house I cried for a long time," Layla said. "For a month I couldn’t come here. I kept thinking to myself that at least I have my husband and children. I kept comparing myself to those that had been captured or killed."

She continued, "Over 100 men died trying to defend our village. When we eventually came back there were red warning strips all over the house saying there were mines inside, but I cut the tape and came inside anyway. I wasn’t worried; I can watch where I put my feet. One mine exploded outside my house. I can’t tell you what it means to me to be back. I insisted on coming back. People respected me for it in the community. They said I am doing a lot to rebuild my own house."

Photographed by Abbie Trayler-Smith / Panos.

Yusra Abdullah, 23, with her children in a chicken barn in northern Iraq.

"Four days before ISIS attacked us, I gave birth to our youngest daughter. I was still in bed the day they came. I took my baby in my arms and my husband put us on his tractor and we ran away," she said. "We left with nothing; even the pot I was cooking in was still on the stove. We were on the road a week. My breast milk stopped and my baby became really sick. Finally, we found this barn and we came inside. My husband was taken when our baby was sick and he doesn’t even know if she is still alive. I tried to register my baby but they won’t let me do it without her father's ID. I really don’t have any hope to go home. If the owner of this barns allows us to, then we will stay here.”

Photographed by Abbie Trayler-Smith / Panos.

Yusra, 12, whose family lives right next door to a burning oil well.

More than 15 oil wells in the town are on fire after being set alight by ISIS as they retreated more than two months earlier. The billowing smoke fills the town and can be seen from over 24 miles away. Her mother spends hours each day trying to wash off the oil residue.

Photographed by Abbie Trayler-Smith / Panos.

Thana Abdulah, 42, holds her child outside their tent in Tinah Camp.

When ISIS came to their village, Thana begged her husband not to join. She told him she’d rather starve, but her voice was never going to be heard. Now he’s dead, killed in the battle for Tikrit, and she’s on her own with six kids.

"No one in the village liked ISIS; there was no support for them. There are two types of people: Those that are Jihadis and join because they are convinced they will go to heaven, and then there are those that join because of hunger, like my husband," she said. "Before ISIS came, we were very happy, but once they arrived so did poverty and hunger."

Photographed by Abbie Trayler-Smith / Panos.

"I don’t want to remember ISIS being here. They destroyed us. Around two-and-a-half years we’ve not been paid, there’s no food. You see I have kids and how am I to feed them?" Naomi, 40, said. "A piece of bomb went in my son’s stomach one week before liberation, we managed to get to hospital. Life would be good enough if we had work and a salary. Right now our men are all at home. We are fighting with our men because we are all stressed."

Photographed by Abbie Trayler-Smith / Panos.

Noura, 10, outside a makeshift camp in the grounds of a school where she arrived with her family one day earlier.

Her family and many others managed to escape the fighting in their neighbourhood of Mosul after being stuck in the middle of the battle for three days.

Photographed by Abbie Trayler-Smith / Panos

Jawar, 18, is a community health promoter who teaches the locals (mostly children) good sanitation practices and how to stay safe from diseases.

Photographed by Abbie Trayler-Smith / Panos.

Jamila Hamid, 52, who lives with her mother, Yasmine Jasem, in Saadiya, Iraq.

Families are just beginning to return to Saadiya now, almost a year after occupation by ISIS.

"I miss my husband very much. Now I am the man and the woman in this house. The work I used to do weaving beds and blankets from cotton can’t be done anymore and I can’t sell things on the market," she said. "As a woman I am not free to go to the market as I like. I go every three days to buy vegetables and that’s it. I depend entirely on my shop in my house that Oxfam helped me to open."

Photographed by Abbie Trayler-Smith / Panos.

Hana, 18, is another community health promoter teaching the locals.

Photographed by Abbie Trayler-Smith / Panos.

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