I was nine months pregnant when Islamic State came. It was 2014 and I was living with my husband, Ferhad, and one-year-old son, Haval, in the village of Tal Qasab in the Kurdish region of northern Iraq. My husband and I had been childhood sweethearts. We led a simple life, and were very happy.

For a couple of months, we had been worrying about an attack; Isis were targeting the Yazidi people in our region. Then, one August morning, we woke to the news that they had attacked Tuazar, the neighbouring village. We had just sat down to breakfast when a bullet hit our window. I looked outside and realised our neighbours were running for their lives.

About 25 of us crammed into our van, including my husband’s family and some neighbours. Then we drove to the Sinjar mountains, 12km away. They are a large range of barren mountains that stretch into Syria. Yazidis consider them sacred. As we drove, I realised how bad the situation was. I saw black-clad Isis fighters shooting people in the street and people vomiting with fear. I never believed we could survive. They seemed to be killing anyone who was outdoors.

We parked at the foot of the mountains and began walking. We hadn’t gone far when I felt the first contraction. To my horror, I realised I was going to give birth there. My mother-in-law ushered me into an abandoned shepherd’s hut to lie down, while Ferhad went to find help.

My labour went on for seven hours. I felt numb. Mainly, I couldn’t believe I was putting my family through this. I told them to leave me and save themselves, but they wouldn’t. Ferhad found a midwife who was also fleeing for her life and she helped me with the birth.

We called our baby Hawar. We had decided on the name long before he was born. In Kurdish, it means “a call for help”. We never imagined he would be born in a situation to match his name. He was a perfect healthy baby but I looked at him and felt nothing but guilt for bringing him into the world.

A couple of hours after he was born, my mother-in-law helped me change my clothes. But there was no way I could walk. I was bleeding quite heavily. I’d had nothing to eat but a bit of bread, so had no breast milk. I was worried Isis were going to hear Hawar’s cries. We found some water nearby. It was filthy but we gave it to Hawar anyway; it was summer and the temperature was about 42C. I lay there thinking, “This is it. These are the last days of my life.”

On the third day, Ferhad said he had no choice but to go in search of water. I remember the look on his face clearly: he looked so sad, as if he was saying goodbye for the last time. Two hours went by, then three, then four. We had a mobile phone and we had used it to call my brother for help but he had become hopelessly lost. Not long after Ferhad left, my brother finally arrived with food and water. We waited, but still my husband didn’t return. I told my brother to go and look for him.

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Eventually, my mother-in-law said we needed to move on for the sake of the children. I held my baby close and we set off by foot towards Syria where we knew it was safe. I think I cried the entire way.

That was four years ago. To this day, I have no idea what happened to Ferhad. Isis have been defeated in this area but they still have many prisoners. It is too dangerous to return home. His family went into the mountains again and again after Isis had gone to see if they could find him. Two years ago, my phone rang and there was shouting at the other end before it went dead. I think it was him. I’ve heard nothing since but I still have hope.

After we got to Syria, I was taken to the Rawanga refugee camp. I trained on a sewing project run by a charity called the Lotus Flower. They taught me how to make things I could sell. Now I have my own sewing machine and train others. I am the breadwinner; it stops me thinking about what happened.

Hawar is four. Every year in August, he says to me: “I want to celebrate my birthday.” I say, “No, that is a day I can never celebrate.”

Some names have been changed.

• As told to Lena Corner.

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