Towards the ending of the documentary, a woman tells of the hardships that kidnapped Yazidis go through everyday: a never-ending nightmare where one is confronted daily by challenges that people of the western world only know as kind of extreme (but ever so unreal) narrative expedients, e.g. Sophie's choice. The same woman then concludes by affirming that these are truly the most voiceless people she can think of. The importance of Mediha as a documentary, then, must reside in the attempt to make present what is, in reality, absent. Throughout the whole movie, we see all kinds of people deprived of something essential such as a children, a mother, a brother, innocence. And Mediha, in a way, works perfectly as the catalyst of loss: as a daughter she is deprived of her own mother, as a sister (and in a way also as a mother) of her own brother and as a girl she is in constant mourning of her forever lost childhood. To give her the control of the camera, to intersperse glimpses of her life by her own hands, works perfectly, but only because Mediha never wants to stop sharing. What makes her extremely rare and most deserving of the amplification is, in fact, a truly unbreakable sense of resilience, even in the face of her own community telling her just not to talk, and by proxy to think, about the past. Still, she doesn't refuse to suffer, and wears her scars proudly, with a smile. Symbolized by an ending section where brother and sister reunite, and kids run in the sunset, Mediha is a documentary that stuns for the vein of unchained optimism it manages to transmit.
